Dreaming in French-Molly
Her light brown hair was pulled into a high pony tail. The messy strands pulled tight, straining against her skull. A digital clock on the nightstand beeped in red block numbers 9:31. The girl was pulling another all-nighter. A small lamp in the corner created a square of light in the now black window. She wore her dad's oversized Disney sweatshirt, the sleeves shoved up to the elbows. Blue eyes framed by dark lashes showed her tiredness through bloodshot veins. Dark semicircles appeared like bruises underneath those light baby blues.
Her face was illuminated by the computer screen, creating an unearthly shine. A woman quietly sung in French through the speakers, soft and low in the night. Staring intently at the screen, her top eyelids drooped down, then suddenly snapped back up. A porcelain coffee mug sat precariously on the edge of her desk, any sudden movement capable of sending it smashing into a million little pieces. Still, she sat in a blind stupor, the digital clock now flashing 9:55 in glaringly offending numbers.
Then, like a corpse brought back by the electric shock of life, the girl was overcome with an idea. Inspiration flooded the small room, her fingers zooming in an uncontrollable frenzy. With the lethargy broken, her eyes were wide and awake. Crystal clear and full of a manic enthusiasm. Not one known for her fluent typing, the girl's head snapped up and down as she switched from looking at the computer and the worn keyboard.
In the background, the soft voice continued to sing, the beautiful words floating like silk clouds above the frenzy. After a while, the girl sat back, satisfied with her work so far. Sipping at the delicate drink, she scrolled back to the top and began the much easier task of editing. A few clicks here, another sentence there. She worked much more relaxed now, the muscles in her back loosing some of their rigidness. Stress lines faded away as she neared the end of her journey.
Setting her mug down, she gave her work one last look over, the ever-present digital clock now flashing 10:22. With French song in the background, the girl smiled, proud of her piece and eager to share. She glanced over at the red numbers and her smile disappeared. It was 10:45, and the sounds of crap telly drifted up the corridor. It was late and she knew it, sharing would have to wait until tomorrow. Sighing, the girl hummed along with the French woman, not understanding the words but still appreciating the beauty.
She watched the printer as it shook itself back and forth, printing precious pages that held the fruits of her labor. Tucking the crisp papers in her folder, she waited until the last song had finished before shutting down the computer. Completely unwilling to cut the graceful music short. She held the folder gently so as not to disturb the sleeping pages. Her footsteps echoed in the still night as she made her way downstairs, no other noise save the TV. She put the folder in her bag and the girl quietly made her way back up the stairs.
Glancing at the digital clock a last time, she read 11:01. The girl rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of her situation. In her room, she fell upon the fluffy coverlet. And finally surrendering, her eyes closed and the girl slept, dreaming in French.