SENIOR ISSUE: Every face I can’t remember. Or, Four Hundred and Seventy Five Contacts.

By Anya Shroff

Every face I can’t remember. Or, Four Hundred and Seventy Five Contacts.

by fourth year Alex Teal

You forgot my name. I see it all across your face. Your eyes brightened in surprise when you recognized me, but you still don't remember my name. 

We met once before. Rain was coming down in sheets. Everyone huddled together in the choking humidity. The bus driver had warned everyone to squeeze in to fit the others escaping the downpour.

I hate crowds. That's why I ignored you when you asked what I was reading. My headphones weren't playing anything. I was sitting in silence, hearing every word I played oblivious to.

In all of my four years of college, it was only on this day that someone would bother me in public transportation. Twice. This time, from one of a group of Freshman boys. He had recognized the cover of my book and wanted to know my opinion on it. We exchanged pleasantries, and commiserated about the weather. You took the chance to chime in, and that's when I noticed you. 

Your rain dusted curls framed your face. Even in the crush of bodies and humidity I noticed your perfume - bright and summery. The rain had broken everyone else's spirits - but you? You looked at my book with a smile so casually radiant I couldn't help but stare.

Your brow crinkled into a question. I remembered what you asked a beat later than I should have. I responded with my name, and you with yours. That's when the bus driver announced they were going out of service long before your apartment. Selfishly, I didn't want our conversation to end so I offered you a ride. 

You said not to worry about it. Really, it was no trouble, I said. 

Rolling to your mailbox, you asked for my phone. I assumed it was to show me that indie song you said you loved. Instead you opened contacts and put your name and number in my phone. Text me, you said. I don't want to lose touch. I will, I responded. 

Today, I watch your eyes widen in recognition. We exchange pleasantries, same as before, but practiced. It's been so long, I say. Over a year, you respond.

You step towards the door as the bus slows down.

Anyway, this is my stop. But, I'm still waiting on that text. 

You grow small against the background of sidewalks and students. I take out my phone. Four hundred and seventy five contacts. What did you say your name was?