Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Except the Professor. Title taken from an Emily Dickinson poem.
Author's Note: I was reading some amazing poetry by a dear friend, which somewhat inspired this. Well, not this piece particularly, but a desire to write. I have been in a rut for a while - not that anyone here would know as I have never really published anything (my only attempt was short-lived). It felt good to write - but not necessarily this particular piece. I feel like it is too disjointed, and I am pretty sure my grammar is all over the place as it generally likes to be when I'm trying to write. But I really wanted to post something and get some feedback as a way to improve my writing skills. I would be most humbled and incredibly happy if anyone reads/reviews. That's the main objective behind this posting, after all!
Please keep your expectations low - unless, of course, your expectations include strange sentence structures :)
(!(!(!(!(!(!((!(!(!((!(!(!)
Basement of Fisk. A fine - if slightly damp and dark and spider-infested - place to hold a class at 9 in the morning. On Renaissance art, no less. Irony, how I love thee.
Today's class is especially hard to concentrate on, despite the comparatively better lecture material. Here was the celebration of some of the world's greated scultors - Donatello, Michelangelo - in a sea of badly constructed hand-me-down desks and half slit eyes, some from sleep, some from boredom. None from concentration.
Whose brilliant idea was this god-forsaken classroom, anyway? Reminds me of being buried. How do I know the feeling, you ask? Well, there was that time in Egypt...
My eyes glaze over. This is ridiculously hard. Thank god for the audio recorder in my laptop. One tiny click for man, one huge step forward in creating a lazy mankind.
Tapping fingers bring my attention to my horribly undone nails. Cuticles sticking out every which way - God. When did I take up biting them anyway? Why does a completely harmless class on the Renaissance stress me out more than delivering a crunching left hook to a hired thug?
A slight, feathery, minutely abrasive brush against my forearm makes me jump - incredibly conspicuously. The professor stops and looks. At least we know he's capable of shutting up.
I look down at the source of my jittered nerves: a crumpled piece of spiral notebook paper. I had failed to follow the trajectory of the rumpled cannonball, but I know who it's from instantly. Funny, I didn't know it's possible to actually feel your eyes brighten...perhaps I just have an eyelash inside my left eye.
The paper reads "Stop fidgeting! I got you a candy bar - sorry I came in late or else I could've given it to you before and you wouldn't be in this under-caffeinated state. Find me after class?"
I look up, the muscles around my mouth pulling my chapped lips in strange directions. Smile, meet Nancy. Nancy - Smile.
Of course, he has already turned towards the front of the classroom. It doesn't hurt that his girlfriend's honey-blond hair is spilling over the dead hardwood chair, which is conveniently right in front of him. The tumble of gold and strawberry scent is close enough for his fingers to twist and wrap around. And surreptitiously sniff, when he thinks no one is watching.
I watch the gesture with a keen curiosity I hadn't felt in a while. Somewhere south, I feel a slight unease. That was probably my gut. Wrenching.
Ah, smile. Overrated as always.