Stacy stayed over last night for the first time. I wanted the experience to be special, because Stacy is a special girl. I wanted it to be a night she would never forget.  

The first five minutes of the night were pure perfection. She walked in the apartment; I took her sweatshirt and hung it with care. Stacy sat on our couch and watched as I skillfully poured two glasses of red wine and made final preparations for dinner. I said something really romantic and witty about the current war in Iraq. She laughed nervously, trying to make sense of the strong feelings she had bubbling inside.  

I don’t know how I accidentally stabbed her arm with a large fork, but the nervous laughter quickly turned to tears, and I could tell she had lost her appetite for all things you eat with forks.  

I tried to clean her wound with some Lysol and paper towels, but she insisted she do it herself in the bathroom. I finished my glass of wine and played the new Halo while I waited.  

Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom, and I could tell she didn’t like it when I told her to “wait a sec” as I destroyed some 12-year-olds playing online.  

After I finished the game and made eye contact with her for the first time in 15 minutes, I knew things had turned sour. Stacy sat on the couch with her arms crossed, still applying pressure to her large fork wound. I sat next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. Stacy smiled. I smiled. I whispered, “I like your shoes,” and she looked at me with make-out eyes.

Stacy leaned in to kiss me right as I sneezed nasty sneeze-goop on her face. She looked shocked. I stared, waiting for her to say, “God bless you.” Disappointingly, it never came. I tried to clean her face off with paper towels and Lysol, only to watch her leave for the bathroom once again.

At this point I knew I had to quickly turn the tide of the evening, or Stacy might not stay at all. Sick of spooning with my two male roommates, I put my game face on and took off my pants. 

Stacy screamed when she walked out of the bathroom to see me unpantsed and covered in tiny hearts made of cherry Jell-O.

“I want you to be comfortable not having your pants on around me,” I said, knowing girls get weird about that kind of thing.

“Um, Zack,” she replied. God, she’s gorgeous – I love it when girls spell my name with a K when they’re talking.

“Yes,” I cooed. A Jell-O heart slipped off my forehead and hit the ground with a romantic plop. 

“I think I should go.”  

Her words slammed into me like a taxi on Comm. Ave. during Safety Week. I struggled for breath, partly because I didn’t want her to leave, and partly because a Jell-O heart slid off my nose and lodged itself in my throat. 

Stacy applied the Heimlich and saved my life. I told her I felt like an idiot. She looked at me with eyes full of pity, and — maybe — sexual attraction. I took a chance.

I missed her lips and kissed her eye. When I tried to give the kiss more of a French quality, she pulled away. She looked off into space and blinked a lot.

“Did you lick off my contact?” she asked in a loud, unsexy tone of voice.

I knew she wouldn’t like the answer, so I offered her another glass of wine.

“No,” she said, gathering her things to leave.

“Well, I’m going to have one,” I said. “I need something to wash the taste of that disgusting contact out of my mouth.”

Stacy looked at me. I looked at her, waiting for a moment when I could break eye contact and chug the bottle. She laughed. I laughed. She hugged me and told me I was hopeless. I asked her to marry me. She asked me not to ever ask her that again. I said OK.   

For the next few hours the night went great. Before we knew it the T had stopped running. I asked her to spend the night, just to spoon. After a long think, she agreed.  

Stacy stayed at my place until 5 in the morning – technically spending the night. She left when I accidentally stabbed her in the other arm with the same large fork.

After much reflection, I now know where I screwed up. Although I think I blew it with Stacy, I won’t make the same mistakes with the next girl. No, I’ve learned my lesson: keep your pants on, don’t French kiss a girl’s eye and never spoon with a fork.

Zach Poitras, a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].