It must have been around the time when Hot Girl announced she should henceforth be known as Gay Girl. It made quite a difference. Previously, she had been many things to me. First, of course, she had just been Hot Girl whom I glanced at whenever I got the chance. I never had the courage to talk to her, even though her smile always indicated that she was somewhat pleased by my glancing. She was a fantasy in my head, and gradually took over my thoughts. Classes, which seemed less-than-thrilling to begin with, now seemed pointless to the extreme. How on Earth could I possibly use Pythagoras to figure out a way to talk to Hot Girl? Exactly – I couldn’t. It only kept me from glancing at her. Hot Girl being a freshman we didn’t share any classes. I myself was a sophomore, a not very sophomore-looking sophomore. I have always looked younger than I am, it is in my genes. I guess I will appreciate it when I’m 40. Not so much now. But here was a girl who genuinely seemed to fancy me fancying her. I just figured she was as shy as me, since, well, she never talked to me neither. For all our glances, all our smiles, all our friends in common, it amazes me how we were even able to avoid words, but we did. And even though I felt at times that it couldn’t, it wouldn’t and – when I was so afraid of hurting myself I didn’t even dare to feel good – it probably shouldn’t, life went on as it is prone to do.
I had just about forgot about her when suddenly, a year after my graduation, in the least possible of ways, Hot Girl reentered my life. At first I didn’t even realize it. Being a guy with very few cherished friendships – more by default than design – I was, of course, without a camp for Roskilde Festival, the greatest yearly one-week-and-then-some event for music nerds, casual music fans, festive people and drunkards. Being in a camp is essential to having a festival that doesn’t disappoint you to a so-far unprecedented degree, or so I thought then, so I texted my most party friend, whom I knew would be at Roskilde, and asked if she didn’t have an open spot in her camp? She did. I was grateful, I was ecstatic, I was even a bit fearful now I knew summer would be spent among one hundred thousand other human beings. The only condition was that I would volunteer to be a runner for the camp (waiting, waiting, waiting, running, running, dying, running, fighting, pitching tents, phoning, waiting until finally the camp is set at the desired spot), which I agreed to. She said she would text my number to the other guy who would be running for the camp, and left me waiting on whoever it might be to call me.
When the call finally came, it turned out to sound like an energetic guy, full of life, a bit nervous – but nothing compared to my own nervousness – and we quickly hit it off talking. Planning went smoothly, we had the same thoughts about where the best place was, what time we should probably be there in order to get in at the right time, and generally had a laugh on the phone. Me having a laugh on the phone with a stranger, and a guy stranger at that, is unheard of, so I quickly found this to be a possible new friendship in the making, and then – just then – I hear him call his girlfriend, and I hear her answering him, coming closer to the phone, and he even hands her the phone to say hi to me. Now, even though I had never talked to her before, I had heard her sweet, tomboyish voice many a time, and here it was, distorted by the shaky reliability of phone-to-phone mic-to-speaker it was nonetheless obvious: I was talking to Hot Girl.