Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.
Bridget startled awake, her hand on her forehead, a light smile plastered on her face for a moment before it was ruined by a yawn. She liked them ugly and loud when she knew there was nobody else in the room. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. Six in the morning. Trudging through the living room of her modest apartment, she half-expected to see someone else standing by the kitchen, preferably Mom, trying miserably to cook Munchkin Bridget egg-and-bacon for breakfast.
She shook her head and backtracked, deciding that shower sounded better than caffeine at the moment.
In forty-five minutes, Bridget was waiting for her tea to finish brewing whilst taking out spaghetti from its box, holding it in her hands and twisted each hand to a different direction. The sticks fanned into a perfect circle in the pot and she smiled, satisfied with the view. She then added water and carefully carried the pot to place them on the stove, turning it on. She was clad in soft grey-colored cable-knit sweater and light wash jeans, her face made up and hair brushed neat.
Pouring herself a cup, she tried to whistle along an overture playing at an FM broadcast, and failed miserably when she almost spitted into her precious dose of caffeine. "Sorry Dad," she whispered to herself, placing her cup on the table right beside a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire she found loved and battered in a thrift shop for half a dollar. "Still sucks at whistling."
Back in the kitchen, she turned off the gas and poured the pot's content into a colander. She picked up a piece and bit on it. Al dente, thank goodness. She was getting better at this, she decided. She started eating, enjoying the song in the background to its fullest. Bridget was deciding to wrap her Streetcar copy to postpone its collapse when her phone rang. It was Jade, a lovely friend she'd known since her school days whose manic days outnumbered the calm.
"Bree, I need you." Her voice was almost breathless. Bridget decided Jade was calm enough to talk to, because nothing got past her ears to her brain when she was erratic.
"I'll bring that spare cardigan, don't worry." Bridget grinned at her friend's antics.
"No, silly, not that. Not today, at least. Can you do me a favor?"
"Depends," Bridget replied, balancing her fork on the plate before leaning back on the chair.
"My editor entered a competition and I so forgot that I need someone to replace her. Just for next month's issue, please say yes." Her tone was one that allowed no excuse.
"You're talking about Dexter Paper." There was a note of incredulity in her voice.
"Don't worry, just faxed everything to you so you can start now. It's going to be easy work for you. I owe you one Bree."
"Jay–" Beep.
She cut the connection.
Bridget sighed, flipping her phone close. She leaned over and peeked through her bedroom door. Sure enough, she could hear the familiar click and buzz from the machine. Coming back to her dining table, she picked up her plate and threw the remnants to the bin, all appetite lost. She reached over to the radio, switched it off, grabbed her Streetcar and hauled her bag off the floor, stuffing whatever was scattered back to its rightful place. There went her breakfast.
Always smile naturally; smile as much as you can and remember to do it genuinely. The words were written on the board by the kitchen facing the dining table.
§
Dexter University was fortified on all sides by ancient trees –which Bridget likes to see as a forest– that only the white spire of the college chapel could be seen from the distance. Not that any of the students need more trees to shade them from the near nonexistent sunshine in town at this time of year. The building was modern and strikingly pretty with its long expanse of grass at the center of the campus. The parking area was busy with late-coming new students carting their wheeled suitcases and cardboard boxes. Dorm kids – no doubt. A late August wind rustled Bridget's hair when she stepped out of her BMW, grumbling when one of her fax papers got flipped on one end.
"I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.." she muttered quietly, making sure she has the quotes she needed memorized carefully. Shostakovich's Second Waltz played in the background of her memorization, the Walkman in her pocket.
She felt like a circus juggler approaching the west wing of the campus with many things to balance: her feet, a textbook, a score book, and the stack of papers credits to Jade. Today was meant to be the first ALG (Autonomous Learning Group) meeting and their tutor had e-mailed them to memorize a few lines of their choice as a part of their introduction.
As expected, nobody was there just yet. Eyes lingering on the table by the faux garden that was supposed to be their meeting place, she opted for the stone bench in between the two pillars that was supposed to separate the garden from the halls. Placing her hand-carries in front and her bags by her side, she pulled her legs up and leaned on the pillar, her eyes closing by instinct when a new song came on.
When she came back to it, her lips parted in surprise to see the bronze-haired boy sitting on the bench leaning on the other pillar across hers, eyes closed. Her gape turned into a frown when she continued staring. How unfair was it that Edward Cullen got skin so perfectly clear while she has to deal with chaotic constellations of freckles? Now that she got a good look, his skin was pearly, almost glowing in its paleness. Glancing back at his face, she bit her tongue. She was caught staring.
After a quick glance at the still-empty designated table, she offered him a meek smile before turning to the stack of faxed papers by her feet and pulling one up to her knee to scan its contents. Or at least pretended to, since she couldn't even focus when she was being watched. Yet another oddity, she has never met nor heard anyone owning the eye color that reminded her of her own hair. Her dry humor then came up with the thought of having eyes that match her hair, but she quickly shook it off and tried to fill her time with something more useful. Like reciting lines she worked hard to memorize last year in her head.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
When she couldn't ignore the burning discomfort under the stare she peered up at Edward, face contorting to an ugly grimace before asking, "Can I help you?"
"What are you working on?" he leaned forward in interest.
She raised an eyebrow, looking down at her lap. She had almost forgotten it was resting uselessly in her hands. "Some stories and poems students submitted, a friend asked me to pick-and-revise."
"Dexter Paper?"
"I'm not the editor, if that's what you're thinking," she quickly interjected. "It's a one-time favor." She handed him the story in her hand. It wasn't as if it was illegal anyway. "Are you also in this ALG?"
He nodded, not moving his eyes from the paper. "I think this one is a dare," he handed the paper back. "It's written in a colloquial style."
Quickly scanning the paper, she couldn't believe what she saw. Now Edward would think she actually enjoyed reading colloquial language since she supposedly spent minutes staring at it. Not that she cared, but if they were in the same ALG she should at least make a good impression and be on the same standing. "This isn't colloquial language, it's just bad grammar," she contended, slightly smiling. "It is a dare, though," she mused, recognizing the name of the submitter. Did Jade even take a look at this?
§
When everybody has finally gathered, Mr. Rowley, their tutor had asked them to introduce themselves and said the lines they meant to depict themselves. Bridget had delivered hers, and she tried familiarizing herself with the faces of the people she was going to work with and their respectful names. It was then Edward's turn to deliver his and Bridget's breath got caught when she heard it.
"Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: –do I wake or sleep?"
The poem recited in this chapter is 'Ode to a Nightingale' by John Keats, and here's Bridget's full 'introduction' poem lines:
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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