Shy Girl

Shy Girl

I met him at a keg party in college. It was my sophomore year and, taking my parents' advice, I'd joined a sorority.
I never fit into that large group of gossiping girls, but I did enjoy the parties. I spent them sitting with a beer in the corner with my best friend, chatting and observing. I am an artist -- a natural observer.

When he walked around the corner, my eyes were drawn to him. He gave his wheat colored, silky hair a toss. When his eyes were revealed, they were staring directly into mine. My heart fluttered, and I honestly worried that this beautiful creature could hear the rapid pumping of my heart -- or worse yet, see it through the white vest I wore.

It was those eyes that drew me in ... deep brown, slightly narrowed, with hooded eyelids and knowing brows. Yellowish tan flesh and perfectly thick hair; all were gifts from his Native American bloodline. But as my eyes traveled the length of this elegant man, they were halted at the site of the slightly dirty plaster that encased his arm.

I've always been an introvert, and it was with great difficulty and courage that I managed to ask him, "What happened to your arm?"

His face lit in animation when he answered my question. He had been late to class, his van was in the shop and his motorcycle wouldn't start, so he was forced to ride his skateboard to class. He would have made it on time if he hadn't hit a piece of gravel on the way, causing him to nearly be hit by a car.

I was instantly sympathetic and excited at the same time.