Rosie

As I walk sluggishly across campus, the only thing I'm thinking is, "Damn, I need a Red Bull". The reason I'm dragging so much ass? That would be the all night orgy perpetrated by my new dorm mate and two eager if gullible freshmen or, I should say, "freshwomen". Now I'm the first one to support any sexual act involving three highly motivated individuals, especially when two of the three share the xx chromosome, but a man's gotta sleep! Still, as a freshman myself, the last thing I need is to come off like I just graduated from bible camp, so the lecture on dorm room etiquette I wanted to dish to Derek will remain an afterthought.

All I can hope for is some respite from last night's festivities brought on by the soporific vocals of my Renaissance Lit professor. Finally to Clark Hall, I'm searching for a seat where I can blend in among a sea of unenthusiastic faces. The key is to stay out of the professor's peripherals by avoiding any position at the end of the row — the first place the professor looks for sleep deprived misfits and latecomers like yours truly.

Seating was just about filled — it's still early in the semester — and I found myself placed between an "artsy chick" in a burgundy beret and a strangely attractive brunette wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Rosie O'Donnell sporting her patented "I'm a lesbian motherfucker" expression. If that wasn't enough to turn a man's wood into a withering vine, there's the dreadful slogan "Rosie for President," written in red, white, and blued. Despite my attraction, I know henceforth she'll be "Rosie" to me, and it's safe to assume she is same sex oriented, making any attempts at conversation fruitless, if not eliciting some unpleasant response. But I'm pretty stubborn and my curiosity has been known to override practical thinking.

Risking a hesitant look I whisper "nice shirt" in her direction.

I brace myself for the "fuck off" stare, or the rude reassurance that she's only interested in those without something dangling betwixt legs.

She turns to look at me and, smiling, whispers back, "thanks."

I'm about as shocked as I am relieved. The professor begins to speak about the works of Francis Drake, and my plan to catch 40 winks in between his monotonous jabber has been supplanted with unexpected interest in "Rosie." That smile and whisper are enough to quell my regret at adding this class to fulfill a prereq. Another attempt to continue communicating with "Rosie" maybe pushing the limits of this impromptu encounter, but practicality be damned, especially with my plans of adding another hour of sleep now dashed. Looking to my left, I find the "artsy chick" scribbling every single of the professor's words echoing throughout the forum. Assured my reluctant attempt to continue a conversation with "Rosie" won't be interfered with by an audience, I turn back to my right to find her focused yet completely relaxed as she listens to the lecture.

With a sly smirk I whisper, "if I happen to doze off, would you mind letting me borrow your notes?" It sounded much better in my head than it did coming out.

I can feel the anxiety creep and build in anticipation of the response that reminds me my idiotic statements are often best left unsaid.

She turns back to me, nonchalant, and with that same smile whispers, "How about this, if you can shut up for two seconds and allow me to at least attempt to be interested in what this man is saying, you've got a deal."

This, I think, just might be the start of a beautiful and unconventional friendship. Back at ease and with 54 minutes remaining in class, I revert to my original plan and doze off.