How does one feed oneself? That may seem like an odd question to ask, but you really don't grasp how much food costs until you're about to get an apartment and suddenly realize you've never had to feed yourself more than one meal at a time. So that night, I was on my laptop, searching how to make 30 dollars last in the city.
My future looked grim.
Frustrated, I shut my laptop, the top of which was plastered with the bumper stickers which didn't fit on the back of my Plymouth. A sophomore in college does not have many days which are not filled with homework and real work, but on those days, she does not know what to do with herself. My eyes roamed my bookshelf (not plural, unfortunately) for an interesting movie or book but found nothing. I picked up a piece of volcanic obsidian I had been using as a (dangerously sharp) worry stone that semester and rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, because teenagers like to take risks. They think they're invulnerable.
I put my head down on my desk and then picked it back up. I looked at my water bottle, which was currently filled with leftover vodka, but drinking alone is a dangerous habit. I had a better place for that vodka. My sister had bought me a ridiculously conspicuous rhinestone flask for Christmas which my mother had forbade her from giving me. It was now sitting like a proud trophy next to the books on the shelf.
I could feel the grip of stagnation and melancholy slowly tightening around my body. I decided I needed to take a walk. Sunset was soon, but I could always walk back home on a busy street with relative safety. Boston is a remarkably safe city, as long as you stick to the well-lit areas.
Nevertheless, as the sun began to sink towards the earth, I crossed a small footbridge to what is probably the world's longest, thinnest park, the Esplanade. It was that week in New England between the snow and sweltering heat that we call "Spring" and a light jacket was too little to wear, but it was just as well that the cold woke me up. I walked a mile and found myself at my favorite playground. It was the newest playground in the area, but it also seemed like the oldest. This was because the government liked to tear down playgrounds which were as treacherous and fun as this one. I hadn't seen a jungle gym so tall since they tore down the old playground at my elementary school.
There was only one father-son pair left playing that day, so, with some hesitation, I decided to climb the tower for the first time since I had found it a year and a half ago. My natural athleticism lent itself to the task, and in less than a minute I was at the top, overlooking the Charles River at sunset. After a long winter, I remembered once again why I liked living there.
My headphones played the gentle musical stylings of a singer/pianist I did not recognize as I gazed at the scene. My breasts pressed uncomfortably against the railing as I leaned forward, but a little discomfort couldn't ruin the view. The water seemed like molten gold, warm and friendly, and for a moment I wished I could jump off the tower and dive in. Of course, the water was cold enough to kill, given enough time, and I refrained. Besides, I was injured enough at the moment, having drunkenly earned a twisted ankle and bruise that covered my entire foot just a few nights prior (remember, I said the vodka was leftover).
Suddenly, I felt two hands squeeze my neck. My heart jumped, but training kicked in. Someone had picked the wrong girl to jump.
