The Rules of Attraction

LAUREN Walking back to my room. The last day. People packing. Collecting addresses. Drinking farewell kegs. Drifting drunk through the snow-covered campus. I bump into Paul as he comes out of Canfield.

“Hi,” I say, startled, embarrassed. “How are you, Mr. Denton?”

“Lauren,” he says, still shy. “How’ve you been, Ms. Hynde?”

“Okay,” I say.

We stand there awkwardly.

“So … What are you now?” I ask. “Still … Drama major?”

He groans. “Yeah. Guess so. What are you? Art still?”

“Art. Well, Poetry. Well, actually Art.” Stutter.

“What is it?” he laughs. “Make up your mind.”

“Interdivisional.” I make it easy.

Long pause and I remember with true clarity how dumb Paul looked as a Freshman: a PiL T-shirt beneath a Giorgio Armani sweater. But I also loved him anyway, later on. The night we met? Cannot remember anything except Joan Armatrading playing on the box in his room; two of us smoking cigarettes, talking, nothing exciting, nothing important, but memorable flashes. He breaks the trance: “So, what are you doing?”

I think about what Victor told me after he found me at The Brasserie, before he went to rent a car in town. “Europe, I think. I don’t know. Probably Europe.” I would not mind ending the conversation now, since it’s been good just to be close to Paul and to hear him talk — but that would be rude, and too pithy.

“Europe’s a big place,” he says; such a Denton thing to say.

“Yep, it shore is.”

We stand there a little while longer. It’s still snowing. The streetlights suddenly go on even though it’s only a little after three. We both laugh at this. For some reason I think of that night in the cafe when he was looking over at me; how his face had clouded over; was he still in love with me? Was he jealous of other people I was with? I feel I have to glue things. I say, “He really likes you.”

He looks confused, and then embarrassed, understanding. “Yeah? Great. That’s great.”

“No,” I say. “I mean it.”

Pause, then he asks, “Who?”

“You know,” I laugh.

“Oh…” He pretends to understand. “He’s got a nice smile,” he finally admits.

“Oh yeah. He does,” I agree.

This is ludicrous, but I’m in a better mood, and in half an hour Victor will be back and the two of us will be off. I will not tell him about the abortion. There is no need.

“He talks about you a lot,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s…” He’s flustered and doesn’t know what to say. “That’s nice. I don’t know. Are you two still—”

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

“I see.”

More pausing.

“Well, it’s good to see you again,” I say.

“I know. It’s too bad we didn’t get to talk after, whenever,” he says, blushes.

“Oh, I know,” I say. He means September; drunken sad night in his room. “That was crazy,” I say shaking my head. “Yes. Crazy,” I say again.

There are people playing Frisbee in the snow. I concentrate on that.

“Listen,” he starts. “Did you put notes in his box?” he asks.

“Whose box?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“I thought you were putting notes in his box,” he says.

“I didn’t put notes in anyone’s box,” I tell him. “Notes?”

“I took some notes out of his box that I thought were yours,” he says, looking pained.

I study his face. “No. It wasn’t me. Wrong person.”

“Don’t tell him,” he says. “Oh, tell him. Whatever.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” I say.

“You’re right,” he quickly agrees without thinking.

“It doesn’t matter to people like him,” I say, or to people like us, but that’s only a momentary thought and it leaves quickly.

“You’re right,” he says again.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask him. “I’m not really doing anything.”

“No,” he says. “I’ve got to get packing.”

“Listen, do you have my address?” I ask him.

We exchange addresses, snow running the ink on the back of the magazine he’s holding. The pages in my address book get wet. We stare at each other once more before parting, why? Deciding if maybe something was lost? Not quite sure? We promise to keep in touch anyway and call over vacation. We kiss politely and then he goes his way and I go mine, back to my room which is packed and clean and ready and I wait there feeling not that much different than I did in September, or October, or for that matter, November, for Victor with some certainty.