write a little dream of me
The pen fell out of her hand and with a little bounce attempted to escape off the end of the desk. Surprisingly, in her sleepy stupor she subltly reached a hand out and caught it, and, pretending nothing had happened, began to write about even less in her binder, taking imaginary notes about unimportant things. It was always difficult to stay awake in class, even classes she liked, but for a class to begin this early (10am, early for a college student, late to the rest of the working class world), it was a crime to expect anything less than heavy eyelids, especially when the content was boring and monotonous. Usually she did her best to at least look as though she was awake, and had, as was the case with most university hopefuls, mastered the art of sleeping sitting up with her eyes open. The most amusing outcome of this, in most cases, was the notetaking that began as notetaking, and at some point became illegible scribbles about notetaking, ending up becoming even more illegible scrbbles about her dreams. Today, the only thing she could make out was his name.
As she reached into her bag as though to look for a pencil or some other useless stationary object, she pushed the buttons on her phone to see if any time had passed at all, and in the process, her fingers brushed against the picture. She hadn't intended on keeping it in there, but every time she came across it, she was glad she did. It was a poorly taking photo, from a booth at a fair, and both occupants of the page were was poorly represented. Neither face was flattered, both shiny and worn from a day running around, screaming and laughing in the sun. But that worn out qualitiy in their faces, their exhaustion, their explicit happiness at being together, made it beautiful. She missed him terribly, was trying not to be a burden to his, at the moment, hectic life, and this photo gave her the feeling of being there, being with him, for him, being secretly supportive, whispering silently in his ear. I'm here. For you. She felt as though with these thoughts he could hear her, and it, if only for a moment, made her feel whole.
As she reached into her bag as though to look for a pencil or some other useless stationary object, she pushed the buttons on her phone to see if any time had passed at all, and in the process, her fingers brushed against the picture. She hadn't intended on keeping it in there, but every time she came across it, she was glad she did. It was a poorly taking photo, from a booth at a fair, and both occupants of the page were was poorly represented. Neither face was flattered, both shiny and worn from a day running around, screaming and laughing in the sun. But that worn out qualitiy in their faces, their exhaustion, their explicit happiness at being together, made it beautiful. She missed him terribly, was trying not to be a burden to his, at the moment, hectic life, and this photo gave her the feeling of being there, being with him, for him, being secretly supportive, whispering silently in his ear. I'm here. For you. She felt as though with these thoughts he could hear her, and it, if only for a moment, made her feel whole.