I was going to pee my pants when I heard his deep voice.

“Hey, Red!” The stubby Italian boy in the FILA sweat suit shouted at me.

I, of course, looked around, rationalizing that he was talking to someone else since we did not know one another. So I turned my back to him and stared out into the street. It was a Thursday night in Cambridge, and it was that limbo time between fall and winter in November when its like our hemisphere is feeling the sun’s warmth inch further away, and the meteorological forces are taking a deep breath to decide what to do next.

I needed some air before going back into Manray, the club that my friends and I had escaped UMass to go to. Sometimes all the loud music, loud boys, crazy drag queens and constant posing can be overwhelming.

“Do you speak English, Red? I’m talking to you, cutie.” The FILA boy shouted again at me.

He was absolutely talking to me. This huge guy whose arms were as big as my thighs was definitely addressing the redheaded guy who was standing by himself like a loser, obviously talking to no one else. In other words – me.

I didn’t know what to say, and I was kind of scared that this kid was just a frat boy who was out on a dare to humiliate an oddly-dressed gay guy, so I did what any suave young stud would do to a perspective date: I waved. As I waved, I said to myself, “Self, you are so stupid for waving right now.”

“Alls I get is a wave? Ouch, Red, you must got a boyfriend or somethin’, cause I know you ain’t gonna snub a nice guy like me who’s only tryin to holla.”

I remember to this day every word he said because no one has ever talked to me that way before, and I doubt anyone will ever again. He was bold; I loved it, it made my heart beat faster.

He walked right over to me and grabbed my hand in his huge, stubbly, veiny hand that was calloused from lifting weights. He introduced himself as Dino, but he said I could call him “D”. He was very Italian, very dark, very handsome, very sure of himself and very big in comparison to me.

My eyes were huge and immature taking in Dino’s bold flirtation; I was only 19 and Dino was at least 24. I always thought of myself (despite some of my behavior) as somewhat mature for my age, but because it was my first time at Manray, I felt quite young, and even younger with Dino’s huge arm around me.

We must have looked so strange together. He, very muscled and into hip-hop culture and I, slim with a Mohawk and a Freddy Kruger sweater. That kind of stuff is what makes these situations so amazing, people who for all intents and purposes should not be together in close quarters and getting closer. The night was ending and I was headed back to UMass that same night in hopes of perhaps getting enough sleep to make it to one of my classes in the morning. Dino pulled me over to him.

“You better be comin’ home soon. I’m just getting started with you.” He kissed me for what seemed like a long time and I felt my knees buckle and heard my friends laughing at this maudlin PDA, which I was kind of laughing at myself.

For the next few months, Dino and I talked every day, sometimes more than twice a day. We hung out a couple times very briefly to get coffee in Boston when I was home on odd weekends. Then he just disappeared.

It didn’t strike me as strange, or even upsetting really. Dino was just a guy I talked to, kissed a couple times. I figured he found a boyfriend and didn’t need to keep calling some kid who was an hour or so away.

I heard from Dino that summer; almost six months had gone by. He had gone to jail for a little while for some mishap in New York City that he didn’t want to tell me about. It was good to hear his deep voice and smooth talk again. He then disappeared again, very quickly. In the meantime, I had been in some crazy situations, crazy relationships and well, it was easy for such a breezy character like him to slip out of my preoccupied mind.

When I saw “Dino calling” on my cell-phone caller ID last spring, I laughed out loud. It had been months since I had heard from him. He said he had been in California; he had done some modeling, and he was back in Massachusetts for good.

“Why for good? You’re too young to retire,” I said coyly. “Well at least we can hang out now.”

“Yeah, we definitely can hang out now.” He said and then his voice dropped, “I gotta tell you something first.”

“You got a sex-change in Cali and now you want me to call you Dianna,” I said, thinking I was so clever.

“No,” he said and then laughed, “I have HIV.”

All I could say was, “Oh.”

Then I started to cry a little from the shock, and I told him how sorry I was. He had unprotected sex with his boyfriend who was cheating and had contracted the disease.

“Dino, I still want to hang out with you, I want to help you in any way I can,” I choked.

“Red, its all good, it’s gonna be all good and yeah, we can still hang, I just wanted to be straight with you.”

“D, straight with me is something you never wanted to be!” I said to break the tension and we both laughed loudly.

I didn’t speak to Dino again after that. We never hung out. He killed himself days after.

It was like it always was: Dino came into my life, made me smile and then disappeared. The difference was this time, there wasn’t going to be another appearance. I cried a little when I heard; I cried for this boy I didn’t know well, but who had made a definite impression on me. I cried because his death posed many questions to me, questions I knew I could answer and those answers, which were made useless by his death became weighty and sad for me, even now.

I couldn’t help but wonder, if he hadn’t disappeared, would he have stayed with me, would he have gotten the HIV virus and would I be asking these questions today? My questions, however, make me think of fate and ancient history. Early civilizations knew not to mess with fate, and I know in my heart I could never have changed his.

Thomas Naughton is a Collegian columnist.