Spring Melt, 1972

The air in the Queen’s University cafeteria was so heavy I could barely breathe, yet somehow your curls fanned as if caught in a playful breeze. I grabbed Sheryl’s arm. Check him out. She dared me: Go on. Ask him to dance. My knees trembled as I trekked across the room, and when at last you skewered me with your black-eyed stare, I was too mesmerized to speak.

With the quirk of an eyebrow, you lifted the spell. Hi, I managed to mumble. I’m Sally. You smiled. I’m Mike. Hand in hand, we walked to the dancefloor. Tingles surged up my wrist and arm, flooding through my body and sweeping away my common sense, along with every caution my mom had ever given me. The music changed to something peppy—by Three Dog Night, I think—and I shuffled my feet to it as I nerved myself to peek up at you through my Maybelline-matted eyelashes. You swayed a fraction of a second behind the beat, your hips floating toward mine, your hair wafting. Sparks crackled between our bodies.

 At the end of the set, you made a mock bow. Well, now, I guess you’ll thank me nicely and go back to your friend.

God knows why you said that. If you hadn’t, I would have danced every single song with you and followed you home, pansy-eyed and panting. So long, virginity; hello, life.

 But your sarcastic comment popped my fantasy bubble. I frowned. Yes, I have to get back to her. I tossed my head and flounced away.

At the table, I sipped beer and focused my eyes on Sheryl’s, resisting the urge to neck-crane for another glimpse of you. Your low-riding jeans. Your well-worn T-shirt that promised so much—tawny skin over taut muscle, strutting collarbone. My goodness, it was so hot in here. Unbidden, my hand loosened my top button. Sheryl gave me a stern look, and I refastened it.

When I finally gave up my game of hard-to-get and scanned the room, you were gone. I trudged through a blizzard to my dorm, kicking at the snowbanks and cursing myself for being such a prig. At this rate I’d never have a boyfriend. The deed would remain undone, and I’d live like a nun until I died, sexually impaired until the very end.

I don’t know how you got my name and number, but when my phone rang the next day I knew right away it was you. Michael. Mike. I tasted both versions in my mouth—one archangel pure, the other Lucifer delicious. You talked to me as if we’d been dating for months—casually, possessively. I’m heading over to McNeil House to meet up with a friend. Join us?

I gazed around my shared Chown Hall room—at studious Pam, bent over Grout’s History of Western Music on her neat-as-a-pin desk, and at the welter of paper and unfinished essays littering mine. Sure, sounds like fun.

It was a cold March day, slung low with clouds. After we hung out with your buddy for a while, we went for a walk. Lake Ontario was still frozen solid, and we arrowed straight out from shore, not glancing back. You took my mittened hand, and, without saying a word, we began to run and slide, through the ankle-deep snow, across the vast expanse of white—the last two souls on an alien planet. Our breath puffed into silver streaks of laughter.

A few days later, springtime rushed in, with voluptuous slurries of mud and rivulets of water where ice patches had glistened. We made miniature boats from aluminum foil, creasing and twisting shiny shards into ornate crafts. Mine boasted a sail; yours was steam-powered by means of a lit cigarette that I took from between your lips, my fingers shaking. Across the park’s frigid puddles we raced our ships, cheering even when they puttered aimlessly, flipped over, and sank. Two pink-cheeked old ladies—likely much younger than I am today—applauded.

There were only three weeks left in the academic year. Somehow I managed to write term papers, cram for exams, and practice my daily hours of piano, polishing Rachmaninoff and Prokofiev pieces for my end of year performance jury, all while spending every possible minute with you. We went to two movies—The Godfather, which you liked but I hated, except that it gave me a chance to snuggle close to you, and Straw Dogs, which I thought was the superior film but left you cold for reasons you refused to explain. We went to a Lighthouse concert but got bored and left. You came to my Choral Ensemble recital—the one where we mangled the Stravinsky Mass. I was so happy to see you in the audience I didn’t care when you later declared we’d sounded like crap.

We both sobbed when work crews swarmed the campus, buzz-sawing away all the stately elms. The trees had been struck with a virulent fungus, and their severed trunks were everywhere. You and I honored each departed giant by climbing onto its stump and kissing. You opened your jacket and pulled me against your body. I twined my hands in your hair.

One night we drank a bottle of red vermouth. It was cheap and sweet and bitter and made your mouth taste like a burnt candy apple. As you selected a Herbie Mann record for us to neck by, you told me I was the coolest girl you’d met in your two years at Queen’s. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would have reciprocated by saying something nice about you. You started to undo my high-waisted shirt, the one with the miniature clasps I kept fastened high to my throat. I stopped your hand. I have to tell you something.

No, you don’t. You kissed my neck, your curls tickling and firing my nerve endings. You’re a virgin, right?

I nodded, feeling my face burn.

You’re in a stage every seventeen-year-old girl goes through. You’ll grow out of it.

 I opened my mouth. From somewhere deep inside me, as if she were a puppeteer with her hand stuck up my neck, my mother’s voice emerged, snapping out, It’s a moral issue, not a state of immaturity.

Later I scribbled about the evening’s non-consummation in my tear-stained diary—twenty-one pages of desperate yearning mixed with self-hatred. How you were presumptuous. How I was a prude. How I wanted to do the deed so very, very much but chickened out.

There was a week or so left in the term, and, in spite of our will-I-or-won’t-I debacle, we were still dating. One day we went shopping in Kingston’s antique stores, our chatter stirring up dust motes in the stale air. You bought a rusted oil lamp for a buck and said you’d fix it up; I wonder if you ever did. The same day, we jumped on a Wolfe Island-bound ferry, crossing through broken ice that gleamed in the sunlight. As you kissed me, your battered lamp jounced against our thighs, and the whole world swirled with passion. I was so ready.

But you had a Philosophy paper to write. I had assignments and exams. In fact, the next week I had finals coming up in Voice, History, Listening, Sight-Singing, and Psychology, plus I had to perform my required piano pieces. I drank so much coffee my fingertips quivered nonstop, and my temples throbbed. Even the roots of my hair ached.

Halfway through the week, you and I snapped at each other. We’d been sitting with your housemates in the living room of your co-op, when you asked me if I wanted to go upstairs.

“Upstairs” held so much weight. After a pause, all I could come up with was, It doesn’t really matter to me.

We didn’t go anywhere for about ten minutes. Then you took me by the arm, led me to your room and sat me down at your fourth-hand desk. Do you have any idea how much you’ve just upset me?

I blinked at you in dismay. After a moment, you explained that if I cared for you I would have leapt up immediately, eager for the chance of being alone with you, the man I was supposed to love. I certainly wouldn’t have embarrassed you in front of your friends.

My spine went rigid. Who were you to tell me how I should behave? Automatically, though, I said, I’m sorry.

Don’t you want to be alone with me? You took a step closer. The heat from your body warmed my skin.

I edged forward in the chair. We’re alone now, aren’t we?

You reached out a hand and rested it on my shoulder. There it was: electric lust, coursing through my veins, loosening my joints. I stood, and my arms snaked up and around your neck. You lowered your head to mine, and we kissed, long and deep, our breath growing ragged. You led me to the bed. I melted onto it, feeling your fingers as they unfastened my shirt, and then your lips on my skin. Weird sounds popped out of me, like those of a baby seal.

More like those of a tramp. There she was—my mother jabbering inside my mind, whisking away all that delicious desire and filling me with shame and anger. She made me give you a shove.

Now what? You lay back on the pillow, dark curls framing your face in a saint’s halo.

I can’t. Why was my mother controlling me? I groped for words—my own words—but nothing further materialized.

I kept my eyes on the floor as I straightened my clothing and found my shoes. As I shambled toward the hallway, you didn’t budge. I don’t know what I hoped for—a call to return, a word of affection, but you stayed silent. In the stillness of your shabby co-op bedroom, reality hit me. Our hot but sexless love affair was well and truly over.

Come back in five years, and we’ll laugh at this. Or at least those are the words I think you called out, as I closed the front door behind me and walked away.

At the time, five years amounted to a lifetime. By the time they’d passed, I had relocated to a different city. My virgin flag no longer flew, I was living the high life as a rising young advertising exec, and you were at most a hazy memory.

I haven’t thought of you for decades, and yet here I sit, shivering as I recall your magical appeal. You may have aged gracefully, or you may be overweight and bald, but it doesn’t matter; to me, Mike, you are forever spontaneous and fun and sexy. Just thinking of you brings back the thrill of young love and physical craving. I am grateful we dated. I think I’m also sorry that we never took the next step—but maybe not.

In my imagination, I taste your candy apple mouth. I feel your youthful skin against mine. Your smile is tender, your dark eyes sparkle. I laugh with you, as at last we savor each other, completely.