It was near the end of the school year, so it felt like we only had the shortest of time together before we had to move out of residence and back to our very far from each other hometowns for the summer. That feeling of being limited by time made everything more intense.
We spent all our non-class time together, he stayed in my room most nights. Jeff was a music student and that was intense too. He was working hard, studying and practicing for his finals. (The name of which I can't quite remember, "adjudication" possibly?) And he was talented. Jeff was a pianist, and it was amazing.
I'd never seen anyone with a gift like that, anyone with that amount of talent and dedication and focus and it was beautiful.
He liked to read, he was smart, he seemed worldly to me, and he had something about him I wanted to save or help or rescue or take care of or pull out of him. He wasn't loud like so many of the nineteen year old loudmouths that populate Universities.
It was all very much driven by feelings and the drama of knowing we had limited time together. Jeff wasn't the first person I'd kissed, but he was the first person I slept with. It wasn't the thing dreams are made of, but it was what it was. And in that moment it was everything to me.
I think maybe being eighteen is all about drama and lust and hormones and intensity and drama and the angst of just everything. So take that and mix it in with the heady freedom of living in residence and my first time and who Jeff was and it was romance novel perfect.
And then the term ended.
To be continued . . .