The world seemed to slowly halt to its habitual standstill—by normal human perception anyway. Only his stomach seemed, much to his displeasure, to keep enjoying the rollercoaster ride.With shaky legs, Ben gave standing up a shot. He had to wet his burning throat and splash some water on his hangover-ridden face. While his feet were barely carrying him, his intestine's gyroscope had not yet decided to follow the rest of the body's change from horizontal to approximately vertical position.Ben staggered to the hallway, supporting himself on the wall and wagering what was the best route to the bathroom, should the urge to empty his stomach force him to take advantage of one of the three plant pots that conveniently stood on the way there. They might come in handy, he pondered. Slowly, he processed the compromise between climbing over those two alcohol corpses that lay in the hallway in strategically bad positions and the alternative consisting of stumbling around them without the support. “Thank you,” I say. “What in the world are you doing going out with me?” he asks. “Whatever.” I say, “And when, by the way, were you going to tell me you’re a huge tennis star?” “I’m not a huge tennis star,” he protests. I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m a minor tennis star,” he concedes. “How long have you known?” “Since last night. My roommate told me. And, speaking of…” I reach into my duffle bag. “She asked if you would autograph these for her.” I dump a pile of magazines onto Kyle’s bed, his picture gracing the cover of each one. He winces and looks at me with a pained, pleading expression. “Lanie…honestly…I get enough attention from tennis groupies. I liked that you didn’t know, that you weren’t interested in my potential fame or riches. That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you. I wanted to keep thinking you just liked me.” That touches me. I know what it’s like for people to only care about what you stand for. A lot of guys ask me out because they want to date a cheerleader;.
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