When I was a wee freshman at Barnard the housing gods saw fit to pair me with an Andover-educated bleached-blonde soccer player by the name of Nicole with a heart over the 'i.' (And they say the gods have no sense of humor.)
Nicole moved out over winter break and I spent a fair amount of time that spring semester trying to not get a new roommate. Mostly this involved smoking a lot of cigarettes and drinking a lot of Jack Daniels and leaving the remnants of said binges scattered around the room.
One of the images that has stayed with me all these years from that embarrassingly blurry time, one of those magical indelible moments, is Deepa (gorgeous sultry self-assured Deepa) dancing on my windowsill to Sarah McLachlan's Mary, Charlie-grubbed strawberry clove cigarette in hand, long dark hair outlined by the glow of Broadway streetlights.
Deepa tracked me down recently (not hard to do, really, given that I've had the same email address since, oh, October of 1994), and we've spent a bit of time together. Crisp autumn hours spent drinking coffee and munching lunches and sharing stories of the last few years. She's all grown up now, married and newly mothered to a beautiful curly-headed baby boy, and as grounded as she ever was, even back in those days of windowsill dancing to sad, sad songs.