Dating the Wrong Guy

While everyone around us was having fun, somewhere between the fourth and fifth cucumber-tonic I felt someone's gaze on my neck. Joanna kept telling me that Mark Figaro was eyeing me from the moment I passed through the doors. I didn't really like the guy, I remember. The hockey type, with wide shoulders, evasive jaw and tiny eyes with no personality. During the entire night, he entertained the crowd by displaying his parents' wealth, which sickened me. No, it wasn't only his gaze that was itching. There was a sort of optical love triangle going on, stoking up the atmosphere of an already heated college havoc. A triangle between me, Mark Figaro and one mysterious fellow who was standing in the corner of the room all alone: Robert Catano. The following day was spent in bed. No classes on Saturday, only a mountain of homework, but it had to wait. I was too nauseous to move, my brain too cluttered to focus on the multicellular organisms and double-membrane-bound organelle. I thought about Mark, how furious I was, praying that his underage pecker would fall off. My skin still smelled of alcohol. Of guilt, too, even though I knew I was not guilty. As always, I was trapped in my own lack of experience, wishing I was older, much older than I was...