I knew I needed to let the guy go, but I was twenty and thought he was the love of my life.
Most of that summer after my sophomore was spent working in the college cafeteria, renting a tiny bedroom in an off-campus house with three girls I didn’t know, and pining for him. Which meant doing stupid things like riding my bike two miles out to his apartment, wait for him to come out and talk to me, and then wonder why I sat on the curb for an hour by myself.
One hot, sticky August night, I rode my bike around campus, trying to go anywhere but where he would be. As I neared the campus computer lab, I heard the strains of faint guitar chords. Of a very familiar song.
Now, I was no ardent Pink Floyd fan by any means, but as a college student, there is a sense of obligation to listen to Dark Side of the Moon with that friend who likes to smoke pot. Personally, I liked the Wish You Were Here album better.
Right there, on the steps of that computer lab, someone was playing “Wish You Were Here” on their guitar.
It was my first live concert. And there will never be another song in my lifetime fill me with such a beautiful and poignant sadness.