It's Called Letting Go of Your Illusions, And Don't Confuse Them With Dreams.

I hurt my knee the previous weekend helping out with the big Freshman Move-In university organized chaos. If I put a pre-formed, Velcro ace bandage that's black with a white medical name printed on it... it'll get better in a few days. I can walk it off. I wear it to dance for musical auditions, just to show them that I'm not really as inept as I seem (okay, maybe I am) but that I am injured. But only slightly. Nothing to worry about. I pull the awful, ugly knee brace off of my leg for the evening, though. Just in case this *is* a date. I don't think it is, though.

...

Standing outside the Student Union, I try not to look as though I picked my outfit too carefully. My makeup is only impressive enough to be striking in the right moment, not over-done. He said his friends were coming with us from his high school. He's just being nice. It's my only chance to go to the Folk Festival and Ethnic Festival that I've attended the past two years. I leave to visit out-of-town family in the morning. I realize that each time I've gone, it's been because I've recently broken up with a dear love who was causing hurt or ... who I was hurting. I remind myself not to think about it.

He pulls up, late. By this time, I've pick a fresh flower off of the bush beside me and tuck it behind my ear. My perfectly straightened hair stays in place. Open the door, get in the car... his family has a booth at the Ethnic Festival for roasted cashews covered in sweet sugar and cinnamon. He hands me a small package of them, wrapped in blue paper. They're better than candy, and I eat them quickly. I didn't realize I was hungry. We talk about family and he's more candid than I am. I don't know why he is being so charming and open, since we hated each other for a straight year. The summer made it dissipate, I think. I'm comfortable and trusting. Maybe it's a lure into a false sense of security.

He explains what Slovakian and Polish food is, with the funny names like "Halušky" and "Chrusty" for dessert. Over a plate of delicious and strange food (being Italian, I don't really know why you'd put cabbage in anything), we talk about holidays. How important family is and how few of our friends understand the connection to heritage and faith. We're not as staunch as our grandparents and not as loose as the 'reality' t.v. representations of our generation. We walk around listening to a terrible cover band, laughing and waving to friends from school, and shouting over the noise to be heard.

Down a quiet alley there is a polka band. I remember watching my "parents" in a not so recent show learning to polka to a song that played on the "radio". He mentions my knee, and not wanting to hurt it by trying to dance. But, if I really want to, he'll show me. He loves to polka. I tell him I could learn how to polka, though I really do have two left feet. His neighbors are there and soon we're going through the typical introductions. It's awkward. They think I'm his girlfriend. I briefly remember his high school friends were supposed to meet him here, but I don't really care. I'm having fun, which is surprising. I couldn't stand sitting across from him for more than five seconds in directors meetings, let alone even imagine going out with him socially. I decide not to ask where his friends are. I blush and look away when one of his neighbors mentions how cute we are as a couple. I hope I don't look as pleased as I feel in that brief moment.

Wait. I haven't though about being a couple with anyone but my ex for months and months.

The band starts. He takes me in his arms, which are much more gentle than I expect, and softly talks me through the simple three-step movements. I can't stop smiling, and subtly push myself closer to him as we dance. His arm wraps around my waist a bit tighter. I'm spinning. All i can see are the low-hanging outdoor bulbs, floating like tiny moons that glow a marigold yellow. Older couples are dancing around us, or watching us from picnic tables with reminiscent smiles. I like being the one that makes them remember. The air smells of something sweet and fried. We hold on for as long as we can after the music ends, and I'm breathless. My knee is also throbbing, but I tell myself it isn't.

I want to keep this moment for a long time.

...

Two weeks later. The ER has me on crutches, he begs me to allow him the "privilege" (oh please!) of driving me places. We decide we're "dating". I can handle "dating." I'm dating? So soon? Or maybe, as my closest friends whisper to each other, it's long over-due. It still feels too soon. But when one of the two moves on, the other should, too. Or at least attempt. I'm trying.

It's nice not to have to hop everywhere on one leg.

I get my license. He gets a supporting role but tells me that my part is better. My part is better and it doesn't matter. I get behind in school work. He has a cold. I make him dinner and bring him thermaflu tea. We have a fight. Our first fight. It won't always be the 'honeymoon' stage, right? Is it really a first fight if we did nothing but jump down each other's throats in core theatre classes for a year?

It's two am, and we fall asleep working on an acting scene. It's innocent, but I know my roommates don't think so. They assume I go over his house to have wild sex, we couldn't possibly be working on something as simple as homework. It's not like his father and brother live there, too. We fall asleep through the disagreement and things aren't even close to being resolved. What were we fighting about, anyway? I looked around, and hear a clock upstairs chiming the hour. He's in the kitchen eating Rasin Bran cereal. I sit down across from him.

"Can we talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You know I'm on your side, right? That I'm not trying to be hurtful?"

"I don't know."

In the slight pause, my heart sinks. This isn't a good idea, it's too soon. I'm not ready. I can't handle the fighting. And I am trying so hard with this one.

"Okay."

With that one word, I try to tell him everything that I want to open for discussion. And that he made my heart sink a little with those three little words that doubt my every effort and intention. I walk back to the couch, and lie down. He doesn't come back into the room for a long time.