Walking into my dorm room, a wave of freshmen that could capsize a navy liner. We sprawl about, making use of every available mattress and pillow after most of us spent the last four hours at a function growing from strangers to strangers who are having a sleepover. Because my roommate is off skiing in Tahoe, two ladies inhabit his vacant bed and the other two lay claim to the floor. This boy with a mullet, who happens to be about the only person I knew before this night of hijinks, shares a twin bed with me. As our 3 a.m. escapade comes to an end, the two of us lie facing the ceiling. I’m not quite sure how we got here—well, it probably had something to do with me inviting these six strangers to my room. But as I lie on this bed with this man, with his mullet, with a leprechaun onesie I lent him, with his body squished against the wall, with his socks on, with my grass-fed beef bolognese breath, with a luminous stain on my comforter that I am trying to hide, with the penultimate fear that he’s as scared as I am, I begin to question if this was a good idea. 

I don’t know how anyone could be immune to this. I mean, having to platonically share a twin bed. I can’t even hug this guy! Two weeks ago, he went in for a hug and I straight up walked away and pretended I didn’t see him. I don’t like physical touch. Whenever a friend puts their arm around me I push it off; I am a side-hug connoisseur; I am the first to offer a handshake and the last to leave a room—I stay an extra minute so I don’t risk bumping shoulders with a stranger. The last time I made physical contact with a friend, she went to the emergency room with a broken toe. It was the beginning of the school year and we wanted to do a chest bump, but I forgot how much I had grown that summer. She bore the brute force of my post-pubescent body, abruptly flailing and falling to the floor. 

As we bask under my baby blue comforter, observing every crack and crater on the ceiling, I wonder how long it will take for one of us to face a direction. Plagued by this decision, I turn towards him and ask: “What would be the most embarrassing way to bite the dust?” I think I just need a reason to tell him the story of how my great uncle died from a heart attack at Hooters; I need him to think I’m funny. We both laugh, then remember the four other people trying to sleep, then laugh even more at the fact that

we don’t know most of their names. We laugh ourselves to sleep, keeping a four-inch distance between one another, keeping our heads on separate pillows, keeping in mind that we both apparently wet the bed one year ago. That made us laugh too. 

I wake up at 9 that morning, go pee, brush the meat off my breath, and lie there waiting for everyone to get up. We share a waffle in our dining hall as I listen to him connect the creator of Buzzfeed, to consumer capitalism, to schizophrenia. He’s smart, but to be perfectly honest, it is hard to pay attention to him in a leprechaun onesie. We ditch the group and as we walk back to his parked bike, he comes clean. He explains that he found the four people we spent the night with to be intimidating. He says that I was the only reason he stuck around, that he thinks I am an intellectual, crowned with some comedic superpower, and that his family will love me when I come to dinner next week. He says those other people remind him of how much he misses his girlfriend. 

I tell him the story of how Zuza almost got caught shoplifting at Goodwill and how my friends just got unbanned from Hobby Lobby. I tell him about how Lily and I dressed up as Tonya Harding and a telescopic metal baton for Halloween; I even show him a picture as proof. I make him laugh; my tight five turns into a long-winded twenty as we make our way to his bike and I curve my way around having to compliment him back. He tells me that he’s worried his girlfriend might be falling in love with other people. His worst fear is that this ‘open relationship’ idea might blow up in his face. My worst fear is that he might misinterpret a compliment to be some sort of romantic advance. 

I am brought back to an experience I had during my senior year of high school. I am lingering with my thumbs tucked into the straps of my pink, mostly ironic 2016 Justice backpack as I watch my male cohorts frolic about the basement bathroom in their boxer briefs. We are changing into our sweatpants and short sleeve shirts for our seventh-period class—a task we have ten minutes to complete. But given the hijinks these boys are entree to, I know I’ll be waiting some time before they finish. I gaze at these boys—looking big as boulders and emitting a stench potent as tonsil stone—spanking one another with their rolled-up shirts. As one guy takes his pants off to reveal his red Hanes, I hear a roar of remarks. They all scream like castrated hyenas:

“Aye” 

“Okay dummy thicc” 

“Okay, Elias…Why are you so sexy right now?” 

I most desperately want to chime in. I think of things to say in my head. Cute butt, man. Nope. That sounds too formal. Woah, look at those buns! You don’t have to be crossed to see how hot you look. That feels too planned. I want this to sound off the cuff and bro-ey. You lookin’ mighty fine. That’s it. I chime in: 

“Woah Elias! You, um, lookin’ mighty fiiiiiiiiiiine.” 

The room falls absolutely silent. I collect stares like coupons, like coins, like pamphlets I know I’ll never use. These boys looked at each other like I had said something I couldn’t say, like they saw it coming, like they were about to take a shot. 

Mullet man and I get back to his bike and he assures me that we will see one another soon, that I will meet his family, that there are conversations to be had, places to be seen, and stories to be shared. We don’t set a date, but I believe him. We hug and he pats the small of my back three times as if he is gently knocking on a door. 

I spend the rest of the day hanging out with my friend Ezra as we both attempt to choreograph a rendition of “Call Me Maybe.” His fraternity is to serenade the girls at a sorority with organized song and a dance. Ezra asked for my theatrical expertise—he’s being generous. 

Ezra is flaunting a pair of khaki pants that I gave to him after he outgrew everything in his closet; he frantically called me two weeks ago asking to borrow a pair for a formal evening. I let him keep the pants in exchange for all the Lactaid pills I’ve stolen from him. 

The dance isn’t good, but I doubt any of the girls at this sorority are going to be judging these young men on their theatrical prowess. As I collect my belongings to go home, I see Ezra frantically texting on his phone. 

“Hey, Ezra. You are looking dummy thicc in those Khakis. On God.” 

He chuckles. I start walking out the door, but soon come to a halt:

“Ezra, you’re not like—like, you know I’m joking when I say things like that. You don’t feel uncomfortable, do you?” 

He laughs: 

“Does it look like I feel uncomfortable?” 

He does this dance where he slowly twirls around with his hands in the air, like a girl at an ABBA concert, like a ribbon, graceful like a figure skater, like Tonya Harding falling out of a triple axel, rolling like a shirt to smack a friend, rolling four inches closer on a twin sized bed until you’re close enough to say “go brush your teeth, your breath smells like beef bolognese.”

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Avinoam Levin hails from the mountainous Colorado, where he has spent the last eighteen years of his life. He now resides in Northern California, attending the University of California, Berkeley where he intends to major in English or something that is not English. In his leisure time, Avi enjoys walking, writing, and making fertility idols out of clay. He is colorblind and, therefore, cannot see colors, do math, or eat dairy. Find him on Instagram @avilevin_.