Impasse

I happen to have unusually large nostrils. Like gaping, cavernous things that— Well. Needless to say, I was teased about it mercilessly in elementary school, as prepubescent children are spawn from Satan himself and at eight years old your head hasn't really grown into its potential... Yes, I've talked about this with my therapist, and Bev and I have made some real breakthroughs when it comes to body positivity. Over the years I've learned to accept my nostrils, if not love them— and how to breathe gently. I say all this to provide you with just a fraction of context when I describe to you the absolutely Herculean effort that went into restraining those nostrils in this very moment. Absolute agony as I turned to greet the most shocking face that could have ever been presented to me. It was him. 317B. Had I not been in the company of the hottest, nerdiest girl to have ever given me a chance, those bad boys would have flared so wide they could flag down ships in the night.

"Have you met Wilton?" My Comp Sci goddess asked.

"So, it has a name?” I nearly sneered out. But after all that aforementioned struggle to contain the beasts I couldn't bear to ruin my efforts now. And how would I explain it anyway? It would only make me sound like a complete basket case at best, freak at worst, and did I mention this girl was hot? Like— she has a tongue piercing. Amongst other pierced things. So all that comes out of my mouth is a slightly strangled "Nah, what's up, man," and dear god my hand has outstretched automatically. "Name's Jack."

Wilton (what kind of name was 'Wilton' anyway, Jesus) narrowed his eyes slightly at the hand and for a terrifying half a second my heart thumped violently in my throat at the thought that he was gonna call me on my BS right then and there. But then there was a disgustingly sweaty— and vaguely sticky— palm clasping mine. If there is a God in Heaven, that would be beer from a spilt solo cup. Beer from a spilt cup. Beer. From a spilt cup.

"Never seen you at one of these parties before." Ugh, I hated his stupid nasally voice but at least he seemed to be keeping his trap shut.

"Well duh, he's not CS— just my date, dumbass." She miraculously stepped in, saving me from myself and another potential slip. What a woman. So hot.

"Yeah well," the dude shrugged awkwardly making the plaid of his button up ripple unattractively, "He just seems the.. gatecrashing type I dunno."

Wow. This guy was some kind of stupid. That didn't even make sense. Also. Cheap friggin' shot, man.

"What?" She was looking between us again. "You sure you guys haven’t met before? You're acting... weird."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap on a stick. Like what am I supposed to say, "Haha ya got us, Kenzie. We totally do actually know each other. Arch enemies in fact, ha ha ha. Small world, huh?" The only thing stupider to say than that would be the reason we were arch enemies. I just raised my eyebrows and shrugged, "If we have, I've totally forgotten, man. Sorry."

Apparently bored with this line of conversation that was most likely borne of formality rather than actual interest, Kenzie rolled her heavily-lined eyes. "Ok well whatever. I'm going to inspect the vodka selection." And like Houdini she weaved her way through sweaty, writhing programmers boozeward bound.

Don't you leave me here with him! My entire being cried out to her. But either we were on different telepathic wavelengths or she was cold hearted enough to ignore me because now I was alone. With the enemy. With... Wilton.

" ... "

" ..."

You see. This whole thing started a couple months ago. He is 317B, I'm 321A. Belford Hall, West Wing. His room just happened, by some cruel twist of fate, directly across from mine. And you know the thing about college dorms is, they're never willing to drop the dime on in-unit washers and dryers. Not when us suckers can give them even more money on top of the bankrupting tuition fees, and room and board. So you may be out $3 to 5 every washday and the laundry room is obviously... communal.

And when a lot of young people use a facility something is bound to end up broken sooner or later. So naturally, the average dorm dweller might get attached to certain washers, their dryer that they know won't just eat their money without turning on at all... or similar unpleasantries. And we’re all creatures of habit, maybe you get into the routine of showing up on a certain time, a certain day that you can wash your crap in relative peace.

Relative. Sometimes that peace is disturbed by a sticky-handed creep using your favorite washer. And then your dryer. And y’know, the first time may be a coincidence. Maybe they had something happen on their usual wash day that had postponed their schedule that they had to use your time, with your machines... But dammit, four weeks is a pattern and you can’t just change when you go to the laundry room because you had perfectly curated that time with your semester schedule and yes, Bev and I have also talked about this rigidity in my behavior so let me live.

But even with all this, you might be thinking "is that really it though?" and no, of course not. That is a mild annoyance. No, the real seeds of animosity were sown when I noticed some of my clothes were missing. And not just the stray sock that the universal god of chaos knicks just to mess with us. Because, ok. See, I was dating this girl then— well "dating" is a strong word. And you know how it is. Sometimes certain articles of clothing that wouldn't ordinarily be found in a young man's hamper are, in fact...

THE GUY WAS SMELLING THEM OKAY.

I came in to collect my toasty warm clothes and caught the dude red-handed. It was like a friggin nature documentary where the skittish animal of prey just freezes every hair on their body, practically projecting their escape route calculation onto a holographic screen in front of them.

So obviously I was like what the actual eff is wrong with you. Then he just bolted, like the rat he is. And of course I gave chase because. Yeah. To my surprise we ended up in a very familiar hallway and at that point I thought he was legitimately stalking me until he started fumbling with his keys to 317 B. He was almost inside when I bulldozed my way in too before he could close it and... I barely have words for it.

Well I do have one: dolls. Big. Dolls.

And they were wearing my— well my girlfriend but not girlfriend's—

He was sputtering away like "You can't just barge into people's dorms like this, I’ll— I’ll report you to the RA..." And I laughed hysterically in his face right then, I remember. Because he'd report me?! "Gatecrashing" or panty stealing, who's doing more time, sir? He got desperate then. "Who's gonna believe I stole them from you anyway?! You never bring any girls to the dorm any... way..."

We both froze then. Me, for multiple reasons, take your friggin pick. 1) So he did know that I lived across from him, 2) has been tracking the frequency of my... extracurricular activities and 3) has just realized the infrequency of those activities...

So yeah. I lied. Sue me. I-I wasn't dating anyone before Kenzie.

BUT IS IT A CRIME TO APPRECIATE THE SOFT LACE AGAINST YOUR SKIN FROM TIME TO TIME. IT'S THE 21ST CENTURY, LET ME LIVE.

The silence that had fallen between us that day had been deafening as we both realized the impasse we'd arrived at. I couldn't tell on him, he couldn't gossip about me...

I changed my laundry day. And miraculously hadn't laid eyes on him since. Until now.

" ..."

" ...''

Without a single word exchanged, I took off in the direction Kenzie had gone. Vodka suddenly sounded like the perfect thing.