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[This occurred around 2008-9.]
Shall we talk about her? Or rather our fading recollections of her some ten years down the road?

She was hot. Big tits, blinging white smile, and an American accent. Spoilers: nothing ever happened between us. Normally I would say chalk it down to my usual timidity and risk-aversion but there were a few other factors involved. I ended up being an emotional sponge and defender from loneliness for her. In return I got to spend time with a lovely, gorgeous girl.

I can’t recall how we first met. I remember the usual circumstance: see a hot girl, figure out how on earth can I speak to her without having any mutual friends. I probably made some semi-public remark in a lecture, she turned around and responded and then it went from there. Couldn’t believe my luck.

She liked to drink. She had a table in her room just full of alcohol. A shatter hazard of Jack Daniel’s and tequila. She liked penguins. She had a picture of Jesus on her corkboard. She had Mexican parents. She had a boyfriend.

She was eager to be my friend because she was a transfer student with no friends. She had emotional and social needs and I was the one to fulfill them. She was likely having relationship problems by the time I met her and she confided more and more as time went on and the friendship grew. I took her out, she took me out.

Once again, I was hopelessly and helplessly infatuated. I was probably depressed on and off. Similar situations have happened before and since and the pattern is hilariously similar: not wanting to cross the line to spoil the friendship and terminate the companionship. Dithering on whether to say anything. Then do nothing and let things persist. Go out and do something with her and feel elated. Then back to depression and the cycle resumes. It should have a title like “Lovesick Samsara” or “The Serial Infatuator’s Almanac.”

As her relationship was ending her diet worsened. For some reason, “frozen chicken” has stuck in my mind. She put on a few kilos. Not that I cared since I was high and addicted on whatever hormonal concoction my body kept cooking up.

We should talk about the end. I was in a less easy-going phase, the kind that removes Facebook friends. During her last days in London she said she was going to come back to see me. Subsequent emails and my lack of response to them meant we never saw each other again. Thinking about this over the years I regret my immaturity. The reason for my ghosting isn’t a good one but here it is as best as I can remember: we had a conversation where I was being a bit weird and she thought I was being too weird and I thought this was weird since she had known me for a while now. The fact that she found this too weird disconcerted me and I felt that it was a strong and basic incompatibility between us. Since I was in this cutthroat phase influenced by various personal development material I had read, I concluded that it should be the end. And so it ended. And I feel I am the poorer for it. I have no contact details to apologise to her. And if I did, would it even matter?

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