The Dust of Everyday Life
Fall.
The Iowa campus was a brochure with its multicolored leaves and orange glow. The sun cast warm shadows on everything; they hugged the buildings and left longing glances across the emerald grass. Students were studying under large trees that had names craved into them, a heart here and there.
I walked down the sidewalks, crunching dead foliage and enjoying the sound. Fall was always my favorite season; it felt like a good memory.
My classes were huge and easy to get lost in. Mentally, I mean. I could immerse myself in the lecture. Or the blonde girl with the pointy chin. Or the hippie with the black dreadlocks. Or the professor with the circular glasses, the spitting image of Sigmund Freud. I wondered what his unconscious held.
Sometimes, I would write letters to her during class. She never responded after that note I left her. I don't even know if she found it. I hope she did. I hope she kept it and I hope she reads it every now and then.
The girls here are alright. I've met a few potential candidates.
Samantha has brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes. She laughs easily, and likes to go out and have fun. She's a sociology major. She dresses as if she was the star of a photo shoot, and I appreciate that. She looks clean, put-together, and she can make me laugh. She seemed smart.
Daria's from Ukraine, and has a thick accent. She has the best legs, and she loves to show them off. She told me she loved winter and long walks, which I enjoy, too.
Tanya is blonde. That's all I can say about her; our date didn't go well.
But no one compared to her. She still propped her feet up on my thoughts and refused to move. Always the same face, too. That time she leaned over my shoulder to grab a pencil and I looked at her. She looked back and gave me a quick, discrete smile. That smile was our secret, and I kept it locked inside the back of my mind. No one was ever going to see that smile again. Neither was I.
She used to sit on a piano in my dreams. She would be wearing a long black skirt and she would be singing. Her eyes would be closed, tripping on a daydream. She would saunter from side to side, as I played melody after melody on an instrument that I couldn't play. She would see me for the sham that I was, and she would start to cry. Diamonds would spill from her eyes and she would pound her fist on the piano keys. "Why?" she would ask. "Why would you lie to me? Why didn't you tell me before that you can't play piano?"
I don't know what it could mean, but I still dream that dream, and others, as well. She's in most of them.
I still see you in my reflection, I wrote. I wonder where you are now, and if you're happy. Is your smile overflowing these days? Are your eyes as crystalline as they once were? Or has life worn you down? I don't think it could. Nothing could wear you down.
When class let out, I walked over to a large tree and sat down. The air was that perfect blend of hot and breezy; fall weather is beautiful. I pulled my journal out and began writing something for some class. Who the fuck knows what I was doing?
"Mind if I sit down?"
I looked up to welcome the voice. Samantha stood above me, pointing her polished fingernails at the ground beside me.
"Sure," I replied.
She put her purse down and sat down, peering over my shoulder. "The writer at work?"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "I have to get this done by Friday."
"Don't let me distract you," she said, pulling out a textbook for Spanish and reading.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye, wanting to see the sunshine adorning her face. Wanting to see her twirling personality. But it wasn't there; it didn't exist. She was Samantha, and Samantha did not have those qualities.
I began to gather my things. "I'm sorry Samantha, I have to go."
Making her sit there while I was so uninterested would have been wrong. She liked me. I could see it in the darkest corners of her eyes. She tried to conceal it, like most girls do, but she wasn't good at it. Her face fell, and she shrugged, attempting a smile. "Okay," she said. "See you around."
I tried to make myself love her in that moment. I tried to imagine leaving Samantha, and I tried to make it hurt. But it didn't hurt. It was easy, and that's when I knew I had to leave. I walked back to my dorm and crumpled onto my cloud, my bed.
If only I could hold her, I thought. She must be in school. She must be balancing chemical equations and learning about redox reactions. Maybe she's graphing cosine curves. Maybe she's writing a term paper about The Great Gatsby . Maybe she's thinking about me.
I walked down the sidewalks, crunching dead foliage and enjoying the sound. Fall was always my favorite season; it felt like a good memory.
My classes were huge and easy to get lost in. Mentally, I mean. I could immerse myself in the lecture. Or the blonde girl with the pointy chin. Or the hippie with the black dreadlocks. Or the professor with the circular glasses, the spitting image of Sigmund Freud. I wondered what his unconscious held.
Sometimes, I would write letters to her during class. She never responded after that note I left her. I don't even know if she found it. I hope she did. I hope she kept it and I hope she reads it every now and then.
The girls here are alright. I've met a few potential candidates.
Samantha has brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes. She laughs easily, and likes to go out and have fun. She's a sociology major. She dresses as if she was the star of a photo shoot, and I appreciate that. She looks clean, put-together, and she can make me laugh. She seemed smart.
Daria's from Ukraine, and has a thick accent. She has the best legs, and she loves to show them off. She told me she loved winter and long walks, which I enjoy, too.
Tanya is blonde. That's all I can say about her; our date didn't go well.
But no one compared to her. She still propped her feet up on my thoughts and refused to move. Always the same face, too. That time she leaned over my shoulder to grab a pencil and I looked at her. She looked back and gave me a quick, discrete smile. That smile was our secret, and I kept it locked inside the back of my mind. No one was ever going to see that smile again. Neither was I.
She used to sit on a piano in my dreams. She would be wearing a long black skirt and she would be singing. Her eyes would be closed, tripping on a daydream. She would saunter from side to side, as I played melody after melody on an instrument that I couldn't play. She would see me for the sham that I was, and she would start to cry. Diamonds would spill from her eyes and she would pound her fist on the piano keys. "Why?" she would ask. "Why would you lie to me? Why didn't you tell me before that you can't play piano?"
I don't know what it could mean, but I still dream that dream, and others, as well. She's in most of them.
I still see you in my reflection, I wrote. I wonder where you are now, and if you're happy. Is your smile overflowing these days? Are your eyes as crystalline as they once were? Or has life worn you down? I don't think it could. Nothing could wear you down.
When class let out, I walked over to a large tree and sat down. The air was that perfect blend of hot and breezy; fall weather is beautiful. I pulled my journal out and began writing something for some class. Who the fuck knows what I was doing?
"Mind if I sit down?"
I looked up to welcome the voice. Samantha stood above me, pointing her polished fingernails at the ground beside me.
"Sure," I replied.
She put her purse down and sat down, peering over my shoulder. "The writer at work?"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "I have to get this done by Friday."
"Don't let me distract you," she said, pulling out a textbook for Spanish and reading.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye, wanting to see the sunshine adorning her face. Wanting to see her twirling personality. But it wasn't there; it didn't exist. She was Samantha, and Samantha did not have those qualities.
I began to gather my things. "I'm sorry Samantha, I have to go."
Making her sit there while I was so uninterested would have been wrong. She liked me. I could see it in the darkest corners of her eyes. She tried to conceal it, like most girls do, but she wasn't good at it. Her face fell, and she shrugged, attempting a smile. "Okay," she said. "See you around."
I tried to make myself love her in that moment. I tried to imagine leaving Samantha, and I tried to make it hurt. But it didn't hurt. It was easy, and that's when I knew I had to leave. I walked back to my dorm and crumpled onto my cloud, my bed.
If only I could hold her, I thought. She must be in school. She must be balancing chemical equations and learning about redox reactions. Maybe she's graphing cosine curves. Maybe she's writing a term paper about The Great Gatsby . Maybe she's thinking about me.