I woke up, disoriented. Ella and I had fallen asleep in the late afternoon and now it was dark in my dorm room. Ella was a willowy redhead, nearly six feet tall, a compelling and impulsive English major who served as a welcome distraction in my final year at Ellison, her mood swings and sexual appetites keeping my mind off of my impending graduation and the uncertain future beyond.

I was unsure how long we had been sleeping. I looked over at the digital clock on top of my mini-fridge that doubled as a night stand. The glowing red digital numbers told me that it was 8:30. Night.

Careful not to wake Ella, I slowly disentangled myself from her lissome limbs and got to my feet. I shuffled naked across the room and removed my checkered terrycloth bathrobe from its brass hook on the door, wrapped it around me, tied the belt.

I went into the hallway, soundlessly shutting the door behind me, and shambled towards the bathroom. Then I heard the sound of determined foot steps coming down the hall. It was Carrie.

In my post-coital fog, it did not even register that she might be coming to see me. It was late winter of my Senior year and she had not, after that weird call when I was a Sophomore, said a single word to me. So I was completely unprepared for the sudden onslaught of unchecked anger.

“I want you to stop it!” she shouted, her tone heavy with accusation.

Still barely awake, all I could manage was a befuddled, “What?”

“I heard what you’ve been saying about me and I’m sick of it!” The haze of sleep began to clear in the face of her righteous indignation.

“Carrie, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” And truly, I had no absolutely no idea. “But if you want to discuss—”

“There’s nothing to discuss! I’m telling you, cut it out!”

I was fully awake now, and I was done listening to this. “You know, it’s amazing,” I said, my voice calm, but with the quiet hiss of a blade unsheathing.

“What’s 'amazing?’” she asked, smothering the word in derision. 

“That you're still exactly as immature as you were when I dumped you.”

This cut deep and she had no retort. She just glared at me with silent fury as I walked past her. But she clearly couldn't bear the idea that I'd have the last word, so as I pushed open the bathroom door, she desperately hurled one final ineffectual insult at my back.

"What's not amazing," she flailed, "is that you're still a loser!"

And those, it turned out, would be the last words we'd exhange for the next twenty-five years.