1. Lie on twin-sized bunk bed and think about whether or not it’s smart to go to Delta Sig. You wonder where your roommate is; you think you saw her on Wednesday but you really can’t be sure.

2. The number of empty hangers in your 3’x5’ dorm closet far exceeds the number of hangers with clothes still on them.

3. The goldfish tank is your roommates’. Kim and Kanye swim in and out of the glitter castle, unaware of their missing owner. You shake fish food flakes onto the top surface while you think about Grant Davenport—his rugby legs, sexy-scruff face, his you should drop by tonight. Before you know it, your dorm room smells like crab; Kim and Kanye bloat with excess.

4. Back to your bunk. How many people have slept on this bed? How many people have done it on this bed? Why haven’t you done it on anyone’s bed? Could you do it on Grant Davenport’s bed? Whose bed is your roommate doing it on right now?

5. The pile of dirty clothes at the bottom of your closet cannot be totally tamed with Febreeze, but your Lucky jeans seem significantly improved. You put on a sequined tank top (roommates?) and deem yourself half-ready.

6. Kanye stares at Kim and they mouth to each other in slow-motion bubbles. It looks totally romantic until you see that Kanye is excreting a long, black thread.

7. There is a hole the size of a fist in Delta Sig’s front door.

8. Song on blast is Kanye West, and you find that hysterical. “I seen you before, but don’t know where I seen ya. Oh I remember now, it’s something that I dreamed of.” White boy frat house trying to be hip-hop cool. Maybe channel that cool while you stand, alone, in the doorway of Delta Sig. Maybe chill when you see Grant Davenport at the pool table, aiming for the purple four ball. Maybe try not to wobble on your high-heeled Toms when he smiles at you.

9. In the Delta Sig hammock with Grant Davenport after two healthy dips of trashcan punch. His scruff burns across your face when you make out. Somehow, the palm of his hand has made it up and under your sequined top, your bra, your Lucky zipper. When he touches your panties, he calls you Marsha. It’s close, but this is not your name.

10. Maybe your roommate is dead in a shallow grave; maybe her three-week boyfriend has her duct-taped in his 3’x5’ closet; maybe your roommate is on some kind of medication and, without it, she forgets that she is, in fact, your roommate. Maybe your roommate needs you. Maybe your roommate needs you Right now!

11. Kanye again. “Get your mind right baby or get your shit together.”

12. Your high-heeled Toms tangle in the hammock’s webbing; Grant Davenport shouts Shit, Marsha, as you right yourself, swim back through Delta Sig, back up where you began.

Michele Finn Johnson

Michele Finn Johnson

Michele Finn Johnson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, Necessary Fiction, SmokeLong Quarterly, Split Lip Magazine, The Indianola Review, and elsewhere. Michele lives in Tucson and is working on a creative nonfiction collection.
Michele Finn Johnson

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