She continues talking about Bob or Dave or whoever while I look over her waist length bureau filled with colorful candles and incense. I thumb through a set of pictures: her graduation. I judge that her personality is most firm—from her presence in many, if not all, of the photos—and I feel that I have entered a 23 year-old woman's world on the bright day of a Providence College graduation. I see friends; I see smiles; I see proud parents. I see the smiling Shawna in a bright pink commencement gown and believing her life is about to get interesting, but I also pick up on some discomfort with thoughts of, perhaps, "What did I get myself into?" Behind the cap and gown I see the unease of all that she's giving up and leaving behind and will never see again.

Words are streaming as she continues talking about her past relationships—a boy I'd met one time. And while I'm listening to her I'm observing the accessories to her life : I spray a perfume onto a folded Wet Seal receipt and breathe in the aroma before I toss out a compliment for the sake of kindness, "I really like your style." She is very unique. She knows this and smiles while I read the label of a teenybopper perfume with its cap off. I look over her jewelry collection where I see a generous amount of trimmings to fit her thin body. I only admire the precision with which she lives. And I look across her room noticing the attention to detail; bed neat with an arrangement of stuffed animals; carpet free of debris; and the bureau showcasing an organization.

Did she clean things to impress me?

I see many perfume bottles, free of dust, of all styles. I'd suspect that she uses a certain perfume for each day of the week. She strikes me as that type. She's variable, judging from her jewelry, where I see straight gold, funky neon, and precious stones. All types. Like I said, variable personality.

She's now talking about her father, the police sergeant, in a proud demeanor but unpleased with his scrutiny of boys. She's talking about her family while she exits the closet and stops abruptly—

"What do you think of this shirt?"

It isn't skimpy. I want to see her in something skimpy. I tell her to keep looking.

I'm drawn to the stuffed animals on her bed, where I see a blue doll perched above all others, sitting atop this mountain of fabric, towering above all the no-name characters. It must be her favorite. She must have had it since she was young, when she would curl up in bed and hug this doll and feel that she's safe. I envision this girl as coming home from school and having a tea party with her little friends. She's the type of girl who thinks of her man as a big teddy bear. It's cute.

What's the story with this doll?

"That doll on the top, she's Blue Doll. Yes, just Blue Doll. She's had an interesting life when I was much younger, but now she just sits there. We all grow up, and away from our toys. One time I had my mom take her to The Doll Hospital—yes there is such a thing—and give her new clothes. Thing is, they gave her pink clothes, my favorite color at the time, and then I couldn't call her Blue Doll anymore. Anyways my mom turned the car around. . ."

And wouldn't you know it, the doll is reborn. She's looking around her closet and I can't see her.

I toss blue doll and it lands face down on the feminine comforter. She brings out a pair of jeans.

I picture this girl at the register in Macy's, smiling and feeling accomplished, like she's completed her mission with a pair of tight jeans to flaunt on the runway of life. I picture this girl in a car with friends on her way to a dance club and screaming in the highest pitch with excitement as the new hit song comes on the radio. She's bopping and grooving while driving and thinking the night's just getting started. She's a fun girl. A young girl. I see some juvenile style in how she presents herself. Precisely adolescent. Exactly youthful. . .

But can she keep this outlook?

I ask her about marriage. And she peers out from the closet with a strange face. Not me and her, I say, just that I wonder where she's going in life.

"I'm just waiting to meet my dream man. . .I'm waiting to bump into some guy at a club and just knowing. Just knowing. Like what you see in a movie—and I don't mean to come off as childish—I know true love is rare. It's not something you hear about often, but it's what I wish for my own life. A dream man. It's what I need in a husband."

I ask her about her boyfriend.

"What boyfriend? I don't have a boyfriend. I am dating someone, but I'll not share that with you. It's different . .and can you please turn around. I'm going to put these on."

Whatever, I thought she had a boyfriend. I thought she had a boyfriend. Same thing though.

I can tell that she has sat down on her bed and is fighting with the tight jeans, trying to get them up to her waist, stretching her legs as far as possible, wrestling and pulling the tight jeans against her smooth legs. I've seen girls do this, and I'm always impressed with those little things that girls do but I had never thought about when I was younger.

With my back turned I mosey up to her CD collection. . .it's mostly older stuff. I look over the albums some more and, yes, none of it is current. She must download her music because I don't see anything new. Does she have an iPod? Everybody has an iPod. I'll have to tell her about Sennheiser headphones.

I pick a small rack out of the shelf. Ace of Base. Akinyele. Goo Goo Dolls. Metallica. Metallica? No Doubt. REM. U2. Whitesnake. Funny, it's in alphabetical order. And it's all older. This is her music of yesterday, before she started downloading music. I look elsewhere in the cabinet and see some more current stuff. Onyx. We're off with a bang; this Onyx is hardcore rap; and she's not hanging with the alphabet. Eminem. Everyone likes Eminem. Mos Def. It looks like she enjoyed rap in this part of her life. Faithless. Bush. Aerosmith. . .

We have similar musical tastes, determined simply by age. I wonder if she likes Fall Out Boy—wait, no, she's classified as enjoying Fall Out Boy. I take a few steps to my right and look into her closet. She's standing there and putting a studded belt through the loops in those jeans, with a skimpy t-shirt on. It says "something something boss" this signifying that no one better mess with the tough girl, and I have no intention of doing so. Nonetheless I may rile her a bit, you know, it's only healthy, it's only natural. I size her up in those jeans and shirt with the intention of making a joke about her looking chubby, but then I start to think about food. About, maybe nachos, maybe chocolate milk. And she doesn't look fat, at all; she's in damn good shape, I must say.

Does she have anything to eat? I'm a little hungry.

"Yeah if you just hold on, I'm thinking. . .I'm thinking. . .I'm trying to decide if I should wear something more. Whatta you think?"

I want her in something skimpy. I say no. I say she can bring a jacket along if she wants.

She shrugs, "Is there anything in particular you want to eat? I'm not a cook of any sorts, but I'm sure my mom has something in the fridge."

I fight the urge to make a joke about her not cooking. And I remember her mother who works at the hospital too; I hope she'll only hear good things about me this evening. I decide to raid the fridge real quick in search of something small. I suggest that we decide where we're going. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm waiting around in this girl's house with no plans. Maybe I'll meet her friends; maybe I'll buy her dinner. Alfredo pasta—wait no that's just my stomach talking.

We make our way down to the kitchen, lit by sunlight and where a Palmolive aroma drifts through the air. Palmolive, that's the best I can describe it. I look in the sink where I only see a three cereal bowls and three spoons. I see one with colorful debris in a watery milk mix with wounded soldiers swimming. A Trix girl. Or Fruit Loops. Yeah she's loopy. I imagine that Shawna spends very little time in the kitchen. I can't see her doing much housework. I envision her mom handling most of it with Shawna up in her room, chatting with whatshisname on the phone. It's a nice kitchen. It's clean. They have money.

"You can take a look in the fridge—grab a soda. And you can get whatever out of these cabinets. Just don't make a mess, alright?"

I don't want to give her mom a hard time. And I say thank you.

"No problem, but we're not just going to hang out here. I was thinking about going to the mall, and maybe we'll swing by Lauren's house—her parents are out of town—or we could get something to eat." She sees me searching for food, disapprovingly. "Or whatever."

She hasn't done her hair yet though. This is the first time I've hung out with her, casually, and I can see that she hasn't really gotten ready; she's just put her hair up. I've seen pictures where her hair looked really pretty, like really straight, and she could use some makeup too. Not much, but just something. Again, I've seen pictures and I see a slight difference. I don't say anything.

I ask her how she keeps in shape. I say, you're not carrying any fat, but not much muscle either. She seems like the type of girl who's only attracted to guys who keep in great shape. She's got the muscle where the mouth is. This Shawna, she has the muscle where the mouth is. I think she'll talk some game and things'll get heated, and she'll just fall back on her man, like "Take care of it."

And I witnessed her jaw drop a little just then—not much, but I could slowly see it open and descend. She's offended. She doesn't know what to say. And I'm standing here with a cocky grin just waiting for her response to compete with that. This feels good. I'll smack her on the ass when this is over, "Good game." There's some definite chemistry but nothing further than the typical "getting to know someone close," like "seeing how they handle themselves." Like I said, this feels good. This is bonding. This is friendship. This is getting to know one another.

"Jeff, you're. . .Jeff, you don't know me, you don't know me. You don't know who I am and I don't appreciate you judging me."

I can feel the fun fading from our bickering. I can feel the anxiety in the air, waiting for one of us to act.

My arrogant grin is receding.

So how about keeping in shape. She looks fit. She looks good. And I've worked at GNC for a few years. . .does she go to the gym at all?

She reaches for something on the counter to break the tension. Just giving her something else to think about for a second. It does the trick.

"Hell yeah, yeah I go to the gym, I go to the gym, I keep in shape. Four days a week, can't you tell? I love to work out. It's fun. But I just stopped using the elliptical machines; they hurt my knee; I hope it gets better soon. You?"

Things are again ambient.

I go to Sim's Health Club with my mom. I tell her this, but I leave the part about my mom out. I tell her that I weigh 185 and would like to see 190 before I drop bodyfat with a "cutting" phase of cardio.

I'd guess that she doesn't hang out with any fat girls; I'll ask; I look forward to meeting her friends either way. I mention something about the heavy girls to see her reaction.

In response she says, "No, no, of course not. Don't be silly. My friends love the gym; in fact I go with them when I can."

What does she take for supplements?

"I take a Flinstones each morning. . ."

She doesn't take a protein drink?

"I tried those, but I don't really like them. They taste funny, like chalk."

I don't have time to explain or convince her that she'd be better off if she sucked down the workout shake and stopped with the whining, so I instead list off what I take : protein, creatine, multivitamin, and much sugar.

Again the mood becomes excited, somehow uneasy. I feel girly for discussing my physique and she feels unsure of what to say, like, "Oh really mister strong muscle man." This is nervousness. This is not good. Or let's not talk about keeping in shape, I tell her. I say, let's shoot over my house, no one's home, no one's there. I tell her that I've got a six foot projector screen in my bedroom. I tell her that we'll be alone again. And it's in my bedroom.

She looks at me funny.

to be continued. . . once we hang out some more and get to know each other better. . .