My friend introduced us. She knew him from somewhere, around, just like i knew her from somewhere, around.  It was my first or second semester of college and I was fairly bad at social stuff, at making new friends.  Instead I just hung around the edges of things and waited for people to implicitly include me in their plans.  I followed the people who had somewhere to go.

She took me and a 12 pack of Milwaukee’s Best to his house one night.  I actually wasn’t impressed – his red hair was just a little on the greasy side, and his Welsh complexion just a little spotty, and while he knew my favorite poets and could talk Dylan Thomas and Anne Sexton and Yeats, he wasn’t all that intellectually impressive.  His name was a fucking stereotype, and at first I didn’t think it was really his name. Who the fuck names their kid Byron?  But he had his own place that wasn’t the dorms, and he was old enough to buy beer – a feat I was still more than three years away from – and there was something about him that seemed… malleable.

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