Only in Dormitories

The other night, while the Roommate had gone home for the weekend, a knock came at the door. It was 2 in the morning, so I was understandably suspicious about my late-night visitor. A glance through the peephole revealed a brawny, shaggy-haired blonde.

I opened the door, and he launched into a drunken oration. "I'm here for condolences," he whispered, "for you, I mean, condolences for you." I stared, too confused to say anything. "I read your markerboard on the door, about Helen, I mean."

He paused, cocked his head, and looked at me, Bambi-eyed. "Is it true?"

By now, I recognized the humor in the situation. "Yeah, man, she's dead."

He began to blubber. "I am so sorry! So sorry! You must be so sad! Do you need a hug?"

"That's okay, really."

"No hug? Okay, can I see where she lived?"

I opened the door a little wider and gestured toward the empty fish tank.

"Oh, poor, poor Helen. Poor...I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Allison."

"Poor Allison. No hugs for poor Allison; she's too sad for hugs." He rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry, you're tired. I need to go, to leave you here, alone, with no hugs and a dead Helen."

And just like that, he left.

I tell you, only in college.