what i think about when i walk from class
When she went to class the sun was still up. It was sinking, slowly and steadily, but still very much daylight and the temperature hovered in that awkward space between chilly and cold, when a sweatshirt wasn't heavy enough but a winter jacket seemed like overkill. But she's free now (her professor had literally shooed them away: "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here") and the sun is gone and with it any warmth that had possibly lingered hours ago.
The wind blows, sneaking through the cuffs of her jacket and snaking up the sleeves, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She shivers and hunches over, bringing her shoulders up around her ears. Her hands come out of their pockets, another gust of wind biting at her long fingers, and she zips up the jacket so swiftly and violently that she nicks the soft skin under her chin with the zipper when it reaches the end of its track. She hunkers down again and shoves her fists in her pockets, rubbing them against her stomach through the fabric.
Her nose - raw and red from her seasonal allergies and the sneezing it brings - is delightfully numb; as annoying as all the sneezing and blowing was earlier when she couldn't sleep, it does have its advantages now. Her shoulders are doing little to protect her ears, her hair even less, and the cold air cuts painfully. Her hair is falling into her face now and she puffs it away; her warm breath fogs her glasses for a moment and she pauses to let the moment pass; campus is mostly deserted so no one is likely to walk into her as she stands in the middle of the sidewalk. She could probably walk in her half-blinded state without hitting anything or anyone but the extra few seconds won't hurt.
She hops off the curb, avoiding a stubborn puddle left from the rainstorm two days before, and the motion knocks one strap of her backpack from her shoulder. To fix it would mean exposing her finally-warm hands to the wind again so she wriggles awkwardly, dancing alone on the corner, trying to wrestle the strap back over her shoulder. She gives up after a while - there's a restaurant coming up on her right and she's not wild about dancing in front of the window - so her bookbag hangs lopsided against her back, the wanton strap flapping uselessly near her elbow.
And there, at the top of the hill just beyond the restaurant: the parking garage.
She starts walking faster; she can imagine the heat pouring from the vents, the butt warmer in the front seat, the gloves she keeps - amazingly enough - in the glove compartment that she always forgets to bring with her. The incline seems steeper in the dark and the cold, as though the wind is subject to gravity and is picking up speed as it smacks her in the face while she climbs. Inside the structure she's safe from the wind but the concrete still holds onto the cold and her shoes squeak on the smooth floor as she picks up the pace, her car (warm car) finally in sight.
She presses the 'unlock' button on her key fob twice and in the near-empty garage the sound of her doors unlocking echoes slightly. She wrenches the door open and tosses her backpack in first, unconcerned as it bounces off the passenger side window and falls to the floor. As soon as the car roars to life (C'mon, Malcolm. C'mon, buddy, hurry up.) she flips on the heat, opens the vents all the way, and leans over the steering wheel to put her face right in front of the closest vent. She grimaces at the first blast of air, freezing cold because it's been sitting stagnant in the car for several hours, but then the air starts to warm slowly and her face cracks with a grin. She stays like that until her face is cherry red with warmth and she feels like she might start sweating inside her jacket. She unzips the jacket and fastens her seatbelt, unconsciously running her knuckles against the pinched spot under her chin, then checks her rearview mirror and flicks on her lights.
Time to go home.
The wind blows, sneaking through the cuffs of her jacket and snaking up the sleeves, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She shivers and hunches over, bringing her shoulders up around her ears. Her hands come out of their pockets, another gust of wind biting at her long fingers, and she zips up the jacket so swiftly and violently that she nicks the soft skin under her chin with the zipper when it reaches the end of its track. She hunkers down again and shoves her fists in her pockets, rubbing them against her stomach through the fabric.
Her nose - raw and red from her seasonal allergies and the sneezing it brings - is delightfully numb; as annoying as all the sneezing and blowing was earlier when she couldn't sleep, it does have its advantages now. Her shoulders are doing little to protect her ears, her hair even less, and the cold air cuts painfully. Her hair is falling into her face now and she puffs it away; her warm breath fogs her glasses for a moment and she pauses to let the moment pass; campus is mostly deserted so no one is likely to walk into her as she stands in the middle of the sidewalk. She could probably walk in her half-blinded state without hitting anything or anyone but the extra few seconds won't hurt.
She hops off the curb, avoiding a stubborn puddle left from the rainstorm two days before, and the motion knocks one strap of her backpack from her shoulder. To fix it would mean exposing her finally-warm hands to the wind again so she wriggles awkwardly, dancing alone on the corner, trying to wrestle the strap back over her shoulder. She gives up after a while - there's a restaurant coming up on her right and she's not wild about dancing in front of the window - so her bookbag hangs lopsided against her back, the wanton strap flapping uselessly near her elbow.
And there, at the top of the hill just beyond the restaurant: the parking garage.
She starts walking faster; she can imagine the heat pouring from the vents, the butt warmer in the front seat, the gloves she keeps - amazingly enough - in the glove compartment that she always forgets to bring with her. The incline seems steeper in the dark and the cold, as though the wind is subject to gravity and is picking up speed as it smacks her in the face while she climbs. Inside the structure she's safe from the wind but the concrete still holds onto the cold and her shoes squeak on the smooth floor as she picks up the pace, her car (warm car) finally in sight.
She presses the 'unlock' button on her key fob twice and in the near-empty garage the sound of her doors unlocking echoes slightly. She wrenches the door open and tosses her backpack in first, unconcerned as it bounces off the passenger side window and falls to the floor. As soon as the car roars to life (C'mon, Malcolm. C'mon, buddy, hurry up.) she flips on the heat, opens the vents all the way, and leans over the steering wheel to put her face right in front of the closest vent. She grimaces at the first blast of air, freezing cold because it's been sitting stagnant in the car for several hours, but then the air starts to warm slowly and her face cracks with a grin. She stays like that until her face is cherry red with warmth and she feels like she might start sweating inside her jacket. She unzips the jacket and fastens her seatbelt, unconsciously running her knuckles against the pinched spot under her chin, then checks her rearview mirror and flicks on her lights.
Time to go home.