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Her oxford shirt embracing her feminine frame, glazed with wool jacket and heels that asserted business. My fading wrestling shirt and toothpaste-stained sweatpants that I’ve worn for way too many consecutive days. She read Memoirs of a Geisha. I read Lord of the Rings. She believed in corporate America. I believed in aliens. She drank coffee. I drank Hi-C. Yet if two people form alternate galaxies could ever fall in love beyond the boundaries of a science fiction tale, reality was not on my side.

It was the holiday season, and on the cover, it seemed like another dreary Christmas spent in the jolly ol’ confines of community college. I was oblivious entering Da Vinci Hall’s room 49 for Sociology course, would lead to weeks of sleepless nights and dreamful days.

Technically, it wasn’t love at first sight. She sat attentive in the front row of class. I, in the apathetic nosebleeds. Her corporeal presence was incomprehensible in just a few sightings. My cerebral hard drive required some modification over the next few days to process this marvelous specimen. Once the download was complete, she was certainly my idea of a triple threat – bubbly cute, classic beautiful and divine sexy.

Over the next few days, I tried not to think much of it. There was no way, I adamantly reinforced the thought. Absolutely no way I stood any chance with a girl of such caliber. She was the type that could strut into a room and pick out any guy or god she wanted. Why should I even try? But with the passing of every moon, I was haunted by “what-ifs” and “maybes.”

It became hard to sleep. And in the rare occasions that I did doze off, I’d eventually wake up in the dead of the night, thinking of her for hours until I’d just get sick of it and see what’s on TV. Before I knew it, I was a man possessed. This wasn’t the first time I had felt this way about a girl. But this was the first time I would do something about it.

During the short break in class, she made her way to the vending machine and I scouted her at a distance. This is it, I thought to myself, and before I had enough time to change my mind, I closed in on her. “Hi, how are you doing?” I asked in a nervous tone.

“Fine, you?” she responded with admirable smoothness. Oh. My. God. She had just acknowledged my presence.

“Fine,” I tried to sound as composed as possible, but in reality, I was miles from feeling fine.

“What should I get,” she casually asked, pointing to the row of distinctly flavored Starbucks coffees. Excuse me?! I was clueless to respond. In the past, I had fiendishly read advice magazines like Men’s Health and Cosmopolitan, but a search in my cranial database for “How to Respond When The Girl of Your Dreams Asks You What She Should Get at a Vending Machine,” ran a list of 0 matches. “Uh, I don’t really drink coffee, but um, er, get whatever you feel like… it.” She must’ve thought I was a dummy, and perhaps I was.

Once she decided on her coffee preference, my heart sank as she proceeded to a snack vending machine and offered me the same eager query. Was this supposed to be a test? Was there a right or wrong answer? I helplessly wished there was a “C” I could simply color in, as I browsed the endless menu of various cookies and candy. After suggesting chocolate chips and Skittles, she settled on donuts.

At that point, I knew I had blown my one-time-only shot. But before I could commence flagellating my clumsy intellect, she looked up at me with hamster eyes that reflected the moonlight and eternal truth. “Would you share it with me?” I ran another futile search for a right answer that unsurprisingly came up empty.

“Well if you would, if you don’t,” I fumbled to make an ounce of sense, “uh if you can’t finish it by yourself, I hope… I guess?”

“Have you ever taken Sociology 1 with the professor we have?” she inquired me.

“Um, well, not her. I did take Sociology 1, but not with her,” I rubbed my beardless chin, trying to look knowledgeable. “It’s pretty good but I wasn’t really into the business aspect.”

“Oh. Well I’m taking sociology for the business aspect,” she quipped. Ouch! I had actually meant I wasn’t interested in Karl Marx and the rival philosophers, but it was frivolously phrased. “I’m a business major,” she retorted and started walking away. Was this it?

I followed her like a lost dog imploring directions for a bone. “There are a lot of young students on this campus,” she commented.

“Really?” I asked, wondering where this would lead.

“Yeah. Like him,” she pointed to a classmate handling a cell phone. “He’s only sixteen.”

“Oh really?” I observed.

“Yes. How old are you?”

“Oh…” she waned like a bad record player. Now what’d I do wrong? “You’re too young. I’m 25.”Ugh… I saw the end of an ambitious pursuit.

No. Not like this. I trailed her into class and sat besides her, still recoiling from her tragic remarks. “So,” I broke the awkward moment. “Do you read any books?”

“Yeah!” she responded with unforeseen interest. Could this be a turning point? “Mostly girly books.” She mentioned The Notebook, Memoirs of a Geisha and a few others.

“What about… The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood?” I threw out the question, having seen the movie.

”Yeah!” she exclaimed. Phew.

“Did you read it?”

”No,” I honestly answered. “But I did watch the movie. I think the directing was a little off,” I muffled my malevolent feelings for the foul movie.

”Oh…” she sighed with inevitable disappointment. “I liked it.”

At this point a gray-haired colleague invited himself into our exclusive hobnobbing and began shooting out nebulous book titles at the girl. “Have you ever read Maximum Issues?”

“Fever State?”

“No.”

The unflinching list clearly included every possible book he had either read or read about, as the length seemed analogous to a $200 sales receipt from the 99 cents store. At one point, I even heard “Grapes of Wrath.” Were these even “girly books?” What was he thinking? Was he hitting on her too? Before my paranoia could intrude on the obscure exchange, somebody else did. This time, the femme professor, and the subject somehow distorted into musings about yoga. Suddenly the eccentric senior and I found ourselves sidelined and booed by fate. The next I knew it, the game was over and so was my chance.

I drove home that night in somber withdrawal. The radio was on, but the only song I heard was the requiem to a lovely affair that never was. When I reached home, I couldn’t dispense the recent events out of my mind. Somewhere between the thoughts, I must’ve conducted my routine schedule of microwaving dinner, eating it, turning on the TV, brushing my teeth, turning off the TV and going to bed because I found myself on a date with her. The details were fuzzy, but all I could remember was shear joy and reinforcing the painful thought that it was merely a dream. It had to be… reality was only an alarm ring away. The next morning, I recalled having recycled this same dream a dozen times.

When I attended class, I tuned out the professor until it was break. Although I pretended to make my way to the restroom, I was just calculating a precise time to strike like a hawk. Or so I wanted to believe. If anything, I was a servant waiting to ask his queen if she’d accompany crumpets with the tea. How I wished I were her personal servant. At least then I could be with her for the rest of my life. “Your majesty, tis the time of evening for your daily warm bath.”

Before the marvelous thought could run its course, she manifested affront the vending machine. I gulped and made my entrance. “Hey! How are ya today!” Okay, that was bad.

“Fine,” I fabricated a lie. “You?” Wait, she already told you she was fine. “Er, actually wait. Um, yeah you- you told me you, uh were fine. Right. Right. Okay, so… um.” I sighed in humility.

“Hmm. I’m not sure… they might be. Or they might not… I think.” Why do you have to be like this?

She proceeded to ask a few strangers whether the cafeteria Starbucks was still under operating hours or not. Turned out, they close in about another hour. “Do you think we have time to go to Starbucks before the end of break?” she hesitantly proposed the question.

“My good lady, whether we could make it before break or not is of little relevance. You and me, were forever meant to be.” Okay, that’s not what I said.

And thus we marched to the cafeteria. On the way, she told me about how indecisive she was, and I remarked that there was nothing wrong with being analytical. She found the comment sweet and told me about her career aspirations in corporate America and how she was currently reading a book regarding the rise and fall of Enron. I could’ve showered her with flattering wishes that would assure her security in such a venture and how it would compliment her personality, but of course, I couldn’t think fast enough. The only commentary I could append was my related business dreams of some day owning a comic book shop. Surprisingly, she didn’t oppose my penchant for graphic novels. I could’ve given her some goofy soliloquy about my love for comics – something dorky but something that would make her laugh or smile or something. But I didn’t.

On our way back, she told me about her fancy for nonfiction television shows like Law & Order, and I told her I loved fiction because I already got enough “nonfiction” in my life. When I mentioned my fondness for fantasy and science fiction, her response was less than supportive.

Whoa! I nearly fell over the impaling criticism. Before I could collect my posture, I realized we were nearing the classroom. “Not all science fiction films are bad,” was the best defense I could muster, as I huffed and puffed trying to keep pace with her mustang legs.

“I guess,” she empathized. “Sometimes when I go over to my mom’s house, the SciFi channel is all she’s watching so I don’t really have a choice, and I’m like, ‘Oh, not bad.’ ” At that moment, futility was denial. I was madly in love with this woman… and her mom.

Just when I thought our conversation was evolving into something more meaningful, we were back in class. And for the next hour, I sat there wondering if she liked me back… even a little. I didn’t care. I was in love… and there was nothing the dark forces could do to stop me from chasing a dream. Yeah. I was a dreamer…

The next day during break, I employed the restroom to wash my greasy face. “Hhhaagh, hhhaaagh,” I checked my breath. Several glances in the mirror and I was ready to go. As I approached the snack machines, where everyone usually congregated, she was absent from view. I foolishly chuckled to myself, as I entertained the thought that she was taking the extra time to make herself extra pretty for another eager encounter with me. “Not that she could look any prettier or anything,” I defended her beauty. Hands in my pocket, I waited. And waited. And finally… break was over.

Something about it appeared arrogant and I resented her for it… how she could just walk into class with her tongue turning revolutions within her oral milky way. She felt so full, but I felt empty trying to rationalize the recent events. Just the other day, she had exerted a religious effort to return to class on time with her Nascar strides. Did she not appear doubtful of making it to class before break over a meager cup of coffee? Did she not mandate my monophonic confirmation? What on Pluto Nash compelled her to enjoy a two-star meal and strut into class ten minutes late?

It didn’t take Brainiac from piecing the puzzling matter… I just wasn’t good enough for her. You’re pathetic. What was I thinking? I dove into the sea knowing well I would either drown or get eaten by sharks, but I got carried away by the soothing waves and actually started thinking it would take me somewhere magical. I even amused the thought of cooking for her every morning, sending roses to her corporate headquarters during sandwich break, and at nightfall, serenading poems of her for her and watching Battlestar Galactica together. You hopeless fool…

The next evening, I saw her from afar and she waved at me. I waved back. But on this day…I wouldn’t pursue her. Instead, I stood my ground and waited. Maybe it’ll be different this time. And waited. Maybe she’ll walk over to you for once. And waited. Maybe she’ll apologize for yesternight. And waited… until she disappeared around a corner. At the other side of the crossroad, I was still standing, still waving, still waiting… as if it meant something… as if to tell her, this is where I am and if you ever changed your mind, this is where I’ll be… as if… as if she cared…

She didn’t. And nothing happened after that. The following evening was the last day of class and it unraveled like android hell. Teacher passed out the final exam. Students completed it. Teacher collected it. Teacher and students left school. And life went on…

But it was never quite the same. To her, I was just another loser that liked her and living probably wasn’t all that insufferable to resume. But to me, she was the girl of my dreams, and I would never see her again.

In another time, I could’ve made more sense. In another world, I would’ve made it work. In another skin, I should’ve made her mine. Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve… the lyrics of regret… but also of hope. Hope to keep me warm in bed tonight, when she suddenly returns from work and I greet her at the door. “Babe, you’re 10 minutes late today. I was worried sick that I accidentally overcooked the macaroni. I’m- I’m sorry.” She hugs me and tells me it’s okay. We order pizza, talk about the new bitch at her work, scurry upstairs and do what any two people madly in love would do…