creative writing plot goes bad

I was thinking of my college days today, remembering the real reason I took creative writing: to be near girls. It was a beautiful plan.

Her name was Lisa, 19 like me, with shiny hair down to the back of her knees. We sat next to one another at the round table. She laughed silently and blushed beautifully at every quasi-witty thing I said under my breath. Mostly about the professor, and how the part of his twelve strands of hair seemed to originate just above his left ear.

Only about a week into the fall semester I was reclining at home leaning all the way back reading the newspaper when I saw a smudged gray and white picture of her and a linebacker in the wedding announcements. I rocked forward, folded the paper back, and angled the paper towards the table lamp just to make sure. My face burned and I felt sick.

Shortly afterwards, while critiquing one of her stories as we took turns around the table, I think I said something spiteful (and uncharacteristic of me) like, "just take a shovel and bury this in the backyard." The way she looked at me with those doleful blue eyes...I'll never forget. Out in the echoed hall after class I told her I was so sorry.