Amo, Amas, Amat, Homicide

My freshman year of college, I walked into my first day of Latin 1102. A few moments later, in walked a red-headed, freckle-faced, bespectacled guy who plopped down two seats over from me. As he unpacked his books, he glanced at me and grinned. Over the next few weeks we began talking regularly, and as we grew better acquainted, he moved closer and closer until finally we were sitting side by side. I enjoyed our conversations. He was interesting and funny in an absent-minded way, but not altogether unintelligent, and genuinely good-natured if a little dorky.

Finally, he asked me to meet him for coffee before class one day to go over our homework together; although he made decent grades, he often asked me for help, which I assumed was a ploy to talk to me. We met at an on-campus coffee shop, and after having gone over our homework, we talked about our other classes and our jobs. Multiple times he remarked on how nice a time he was having.

As we left the coffee shop, he looked deep into my eyes, beaming, and said, “I really enjoy spending time with you. It's uncanny, but you—you remind me of my wife.” My jaw hit the floor and I could feel my cheeks blanch, then burn crimson, but apparently he didn't notice because he just kept talking. “You have the same sense of humor as she does, and you even look a lot alike. I wish you could meet her.”

The next class meeting, when I walked into the classroom, there was my friend, and sitting next to him, between his seat and mine, was a girl my height with dark, shoulder-length hair, a round face, oval glasses, and really, really angry brown eyes that were just like mine, only angrier. As I sat down, she glared at me and fingered her wedding ring pointedly. If I could have, I would have melted through the floorboards.

Red looked up at me and waved, revealing a gold band on his finger that he had never worn before. “This is my wife!” he said excitedly. Then he pointed to me, smiling, and said, “Honey, this is the girl I told you about, the one that helps me so much with my homework. She says the funniest things! And doesn't she look just like you?”

“Honey” was not amused. She attended our class for the next two weeks, during which time I hardly looked up from my textbook once, and during which time I could feel her eyes boring into the side of my face. Although I had never had more than a mild interest in her husband, and had never so much as flirted with him, I have never felt so penitent for a sin I did not commit, nor served a better penance than quailing under her stare.