A kind of sketch
Something really rough that I sort of like the idea of right now. I have a general, fuzzy kind of idea where I could take this (it would be at the center of a much longer piece, if I could get myself to write more than twenty pages before losing interest).
Anyway, the original idea is the scene at the very end where the narrator is on the phone (This could be much better served with a screenplay, I think).
I was about to send her a text message when some poor bastard, returning from a late afternoon class, opened the front door and held it while I caught up. Sneaking into dorms - and sneaking is the wrong word, really - was always sort of off-putting. I had let countless young folks into the dorms I lived in. I assumed that they had either lost track of their ID cards or were just visiting friends, but I always felt, when I did it, that people were eyeing my suspiciously.
I felt stranger sneaking into a dorm at someone else’s school, and for an instant was sure that whoever sat in the windowed office was going to stop me. Of course, they didn’t, and I took the stairs up the ninth floor to avoid elevator talk with the guy who had opened the door.
Nine smelled like ramen noodles and perfume. Heavy bass pumped from somewhere to my right, someone’s television ahead of me was far, far too loud, a conversation was echoing into the lobby, and in one of the bathrooms, someone was taking a shower.
As promised, the door to room 903 was open. Inside was the standard-issue dorm furniture you would expect, and all of the personal touches that you never really expect. It was faux homey, in classic collegiate fashion: a welcome mat and fluffy rug spread neatly in the floor, with camping chairs folded next to the television.
I noticed this peripherally in the split-second between turning to face the open doorway and seeing her bolt up from her desk. She was smiling gloriously, hair aflame in the fluorescent lights. I had never seen her face more brightly glowing than when it was in that moment. I smiled back at her - a soft smile, effortless and natural.
Stepping forward, almost bewitched, I brought the flowers out from behind my back, tilted the blossoms toward her in offering - and simultaneously, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine. Somewhat awkwardly, I wrapped my free arm eagerly around her body (a perfect fit), and she sighed happily into my ear as the flowers were crushed between us.
The bouquet giving way caught her off-guard. Her eyes opened (the lashed tickled my cheek) and she jumped back, startled, before realizing what had just happened - and we both laughed giddily.
She said, “I’m so sorry!” and grinned at me, taking the ruined flowers with one hand while she brushed petals from her shirt with the other, threw them into a half-empty cup of water on her desk. She gave an excited, “Whee!” and spun around twice before stopping to face me again. Her face flushed, she seemed to tremble as she laughed, looking close to tears, but the width of her smile and the mischievous expression in her eyes made it clear that she was overwrought with happiness.
“We can always get you more flowers!” I said with a little jump, almost yelling. Her enthusiastic joy was contagious, it seemed.
“He came back!” she said. Joy flushed her cheeks, and she hugged me again. My arms closed quickly around her. It was an undeniable reflex, like breathing. She squeezed my neck - I inhaled sharply - and said, “My stupid boy came back!”
She pulled back, her hands clasped onto my shoulders and looked into my eyes, biting her lip. I, for my part, couldn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding her around her lower back and watching her adorable, worried face as she waited for my response. I just nodded, dumbfounded.
“I think things are really gonna be okay this time,” she said with more serious intonations. “I really think so.”
I laughed lightly (imagining a balloon drifting in the sky as I did).
“I need to let my Ma know that I made it out here okay. She’ll be worried sick,” I said. She motioned for me to call - I glanced at my phone.
“No bars,” I lied. “I’ll have to go outside.”
“I’ll come with you, so I can let you back in when you’re done. That way you won’t have to sneak back in.”
She could hardly stand still as the elevator descended, bouncing one leg and beaming.
As I stepped through the back door, I fished my phone out of my pocket and tossed the receipt for the flowers in the ashtray as I passed. I turned to see her, still smiling, watching after me through the glass. I counted the stairs on the way down, skipped the third, and sat down on the sixth, looking out across the rear lot. The sun was setting blandly tonight, grey and overcast. The dumpsters were overflowing with white bags and beer boxes. A trickle of coffee rolled down the hill toward the woods from a spatter which I mistook at first, thanks to the light, for vomit.
I hit the five three times, the seven once, and the two three times, and lifted the phone up to my ear.
Fuck, I thought. Just that, only that: Fuck.
Inside, she saw my head bobbing occasionally in animated conversation as she plotted her next trip to see her stupid boy, where they would make amends and doubtlessly have lots and lots of wonderful sex, troubles forgotten, fights forgiven.
Outside, I carefully measured my breathing, subdued the worst of the shaking, and in the dim light, managed to look halfway convincing from the front. I gave myself five minutes, wiped my eyes while pretending to scratch my forehead, and blew my nose into a fast food napkin I found in my pocket, phone pressed to my cheek.
When I stood to go inside a few minutes later, feeling suitably in control and cooled down, darker clouds had already brought the night.
“You look a little red,” she said as she opened the door. “Is everything alright?”
“Tiff with Ma,” I said, smiling. “So, tell me what happened with your boy.”
Move every comment for great justice. (That's nerd-speak for "I would be most appreciative of any comment on this piece, or anything else posted here, that you might have.")
Anyway, the original idea is the scene at the very end where the narrator is on the phone (This could be much better served with a screenplay, I think).
I was about to send her a text message when some poor bastard, returning from a late afternoon class, opened the front door and held it while I caught up. Sneaking into dorms - and sneaking is the wrong word, really - was always sort of off-putting. I had let countless young folks into the dorms I lived in. I assumed that they had either lost track of their ID cards or were just visiting friends, but I always felt, when I did it, that people were eyeing my suspiciously.
I felt stranger sneaking into a dorm at someone else’s school, and for an instant was sure that whoever sat in the windowed office was going to stop me. Of course, they didn’t, and I took the stairs up the ninth floor to avoid elevator talk with the guy who had opened the door.
Nine smelled like ramen noodles and perfume. Heavy bass pumped from somewhere to my right, someone’s television ahead of me was far, far too loud, a conversation was echoing into the lobby, and in one of the bathrooms, someone was taking a shower.
As promised, the door to room 903 was open. Inside was the standard-issue dorm furniture you would expect, and all of the personal touches that you never really expect. It was faux homey, in classic collegiate fashion: a welcome mat and fluffy rug spread neatly in the floor, with camping chairs folded next to the television.
I noticed this peripherally in the split-second between turning to face the open doorway and seeing her bolt up from her desk. She was smiling gloriously, hair aflame in the fluorescent lights. I had never seen her face more brightly glowing than when it was in that moment. I smiled back at her - a soft smile, effortless and natural.
Stepping forward, almost bewitched, I brought the flowers out from behind my back, tilted the blossoms toward her in offering - and simultaneously, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine. Somewhat awkwardly, I wrapped my free arm eagerly around her body (a perfect fit), and she sighed happily into my ear as the flowers were crushed between us.
The bouquet giving way caught her off-guard. Her eyes opened (the lashed tickled my cheek) and she jumped back, startled, before realizing what had just happened - and we both laughed giddily.
She said, “I’m so sorry!” and grinned at me, taking the ruined flowers with one hand while she brushed petals from her shirt with the other, threw them into a half-empty cup of water on her desk. She gave an excited, “Whee!” and spun around twice before stopping to face me again. Her face flushed, she seemed to tremble as she laughed, looking close to tears, but the width of her smile and the mischievous expression in her eyes made it clear that she was overwrought with happiness.
“We can always get you more flowers!” I said with a little jump, almost yelling. Her enthusiastic joy was contagious, it seemed.
“He came back!” she said. Joy flushed her cheeks, and she hugged me again. My arms closed quickly around her. It was an undeniable reflex, like breathing. She squeezed my neck - I inhaled sharply - and said, “My stupid boy came back!”
She pulled back, her hands clasped onto my shoulders and looked into my eyes, biting her lip. I, for my part, couldn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding her around her lower back and watching her adorable, worried face as she waited for my response. I just nodded, dumbfounded.
“I think things are really gonna be okay this time,” she said with more serious intonations. “I really think so.”
I laughed lightly (imagining a balloon drifting in the sky as I did).
“I need to let my Ma know that I made it out here okay. She’ll be worried sick,” I said. She motioned for me to call - I glanced at my phone.
“No bars,” I lied. “I’ll have to go outside.”
“I’ll come with you, so I can let you back in when you’re done. That way you won’t have to sneak back in.”
She could hardly stand still as the elevator descended, bouncing one leg and beaming.
As I stepped through the back door, I fished my phone out of my pocket and tossed the receipt for the flowers in the ashtray as I passed. I turned to see her, still smiling, watching after me through the glass. I counted the stairs on the way down, skipped the third, and sat down on the sixth, looking out across the rear lot. The sun was setting blandly tonight, grey and overcast. The dumpsters were overflowing with white bags and beer boxes. A trickle of coffee rolled down the hill toward the woods from a spatter which I mistook at first, thanks to the light, for vomit.
I hit the five three times, the seven once, and the two three times, and lifted the phone up to my ear.
Fuck, I thought. Just that, only that: Fuck.
Inside, she saw my head bobbing occasionally in animated conversation as she plotted her next trip to see her stupid boy, where they would make amends and doubtlessly have lots and lots of wonderful sex, troubles forgotten, fights forgiven.
Outside, I carefully measured my breathing, subdued the worst of the shaking, and in the dim light, managed to look halfway convincing from the front. I gave myself five minutes, wiped my eyes while pretending to scratch my forehead, and blew my nose into a fast food napkin I found in my pocket, phone pressed to my cheek.
When I stood to go inside a few minutes later, feeling suitably in control and cooled down, darker clouds had already brought the night.
“You look a little red,” she said as she opened the door. “Is everything alright?”
“Tiff with Ma,” I said, smiling. “So, tell me what happened with your boy.”
Move every comment for great justice. (That's nerd-speak for "I would be most appreciative of any comment on this piece, or anything else posted here, that you might have.")