It began like so many times before. We had agreed to meet in the entrance hall to attend one of the residential hall programs involving free food.
Once the food was gone and the crowd followed suit, we remained behind, talking, playing on the piano. She played and played, we talked and talked. When she stopped, we stopped. We were astounded. Passers-by clapped. She had improvised all of it, yet sounded like a concert piece. She has talent.
Then he suggested that we find a more comfortable place to talk.
Naturally, we headed to the Noodles, the rubber string structure that serves as playground to college students on campus.
We tied strings and made swings and trapezes and couches, sat and swung, around and around, and talked.
We talked for hours, of things important and not. Three children who haven't seen much of the world yet.
When we got tired of sitting and swinging, we walked, around and around, in the forest of yellow ropes hanging from the sky. We noticed that this created impressive amounts of static electricity, and laughed at each others' flyaway hair. We made sparks and bolts of purple lightning, running around and around until the crackle of electricity in the air was enough to create sparks from considerable distances.
It was midnight then.
We'd been there before. Midnight, three children--but not quite children, strangers--but not quite strangers, talking, discovering. We felt a strange connection, shy and awkward, recognizing ourselves in the others.
It was midnight, and we didn't care. We carried on the conversation, interspersed with silences. During those silences, we knew we were all alike, but did not say it out loud.
When the air turned cold, she proposed that we drink a cup of hot cocoa in her room. It was one in the morning. We accepted.
We dropped by his room so he might deposit his bookbag. Both of his roommates were deeply absorbed by computer games, so she and I giggled to attract attention. Both of them turned around, and the look on their faces was priceless. They were astounded by the fact that a girl would visit their room, let alone two. Once he had explained to them that we were only friends, which they clearly didn't believe, the three of us left.
To get past the front desk with a guest of the opposite sex past midnight was much easier than planned by the hall coordinators. She went in through the front entrance, swiping her identity card, then opened the door to the back stairwell where I had brought him. We climbed the seven floors to her room.
We sat on her bed while she prepared three mugs of chocolate.
We drank in silence. Then we talked music. She took her guitar out of the closet, a Fender Stratocaster. She plucked softly while we talked. We passed it around. He asked something. She opened her violin case and handed the instrument and a metal mute to him. He plucked along, then passed it to me. I bowed several bars of a piece, shuddered at how horrible it sounded, then passed it back to her. Once again, she astounded us with her talent. When we believed we could not be further surprised, she took the cello out of the closet. She could not find a mute, so she put it back. Then she sat back on the bed.
Together, we talked some more. We tried to imagine what his roommates were thinking, as the night advanced and he was still not coming home.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to a neighbor who asked if she had a large Tupperware in which to carry cupcakes. Unfazed, she handed one to him, and he disappeared down the hall.
He returned a few minutes later with the box full of cupcakes, sat down on the bed, and shared them with us as total strangers except for her. He took the guitar and started strumming. We introduced ourselves.
After some time, he noticed my accent and made a game of trying to guess which country it was from. To help him, I read aloud from a Calculus book, stumbling on words as I knew I would. Every time he guessed, they laughed. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Finally, he told him.
The conversation moved on.
Her roommate came home, with one of her friends. We were now six. For thirty minutes more, we talked. Apparently, they thought nothing of finding total strangers in their room at three in the morning.
Eventually, it was time to go. He and I bid her and them goodbye and left to rejoin our separate floors.
It happened in the past, it will happen again.
Once the food was gone and the crowd followed suit, we remained behind, talking, playing on the piano. She played and played, we talked and talked. When she stopped, we stopped. We were astounded. Passers-by clapped. She had improvised all of it, yet sounded like a concert piece. She has talent.
Then he suggested that we find a more comfortable place to talk.
Naturally, we headed to the Noodles, the rubber string structure that serves as playground to college students on campus.
We tied strings and made swings and trapezes and couches, sat and swung, around and around, and talked.
We talked for hours, of things important and not. Three children who haven't seen much of the world yet.
When we got tired of sitting and swinging, we walked, around and around, in the forest of yellow ropes hanging from the sky. We noticed that this created impressive amounts of static electricity, and laughed at each others' flyaway hair. We made sparks and bolts of purple lightning, running around and around until the crackle of electricity in the air was enough to create sparks from considerable distances.
It was midnight then.
We'd been there before. Midnight, three children--but not quite children, strangers--but not quite strangers, talking, discovering. We felt a strange connection, shy and awkward, recognizing ourselves in the others.
It was midnight, and we didn't care. We carried on the conversation, interspersed with silences. During those silences, we knew we were all alike, but did not say it out loud.
When the air turned cold, she proposed that we drink a cup of hot cocoa in her room. It was one in the morning. We accepted.
We dropped by his room so he might deposit his bookbag. Both of his roommates were deeply absorbed by computer games, so she and I giggled to attract attention. Both of them turned around, and the look on their faces was priceless. They were astounded by the fact that a girl would visit their room, let alone two. Once he had explained to them that we were only friends, which they clearly didn't believe, the three of us left.
To get past the front desk with a guest of the opposite sex past midnight was much easier than planned by the hall coordinators. She went in through the front entrance, swiping her identity card, then opened the door to the back stairwell where I had brought him. We climbed the seven floors to her room.
We sat on her bed while she prepared three mugs of chocolate.
We drank in silence. Then we talked music. She took her guitar out of the closet, a Fender Stratocaster. She plucked softly while we talked. We passed it around. He asked something. She opened her violin case and handed the instrument and a metal mute to him. He plucked along, then passed it to me. I bowed several bars of a piece, shuddered at how horrible it sounded, then passed it back to her. Once again, she astounded us with her talent. When we believed we could not be further surprised, she took the cello out of the closet. She could not find a mute, so she put it back. Then she sat back on the bed.
Together, we talked some more. We tried to imagine what his roommates were thinking, as the night advanced and he was still not coming home.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to a neighbor who asked if she had a large Tupperware in which to carry cupcakes. Unfazed, she handed one to him, and he disappeared down the hall.
He returned a few minutes later with the box full of cupcakes, sat down on the bed, and shared them with us as total strangers except for her. He took the guitar and started strumming. We introduced ourselves.
After some time, he noticed my accent and made a game of trying to guess which country it was from. To help him, I read aloud from a Calculus book, stumbling on words as I knew I would. Every time he guessed, they laughed. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Finally, he told him.
The conversation moved on.
Her roommate came home, with one of her friends. We were now six. For thirty minutes more, we talked. Apparently, they thought nothing of finding total strangers in their room at three in the morning.
Eventually, it was time to go. He and I bid her and them goodbye and left to rejoin our separate floors.
It happened in the past, it will happen again.
2 comments:
Gosh. I'd forgotten what it was like at Uni and to be young. Oh dear. So much of the familiar returns when one is reminded. Am I beginning to re-live parts of my life vicariously?
I don't know about you, GB, but I am! Wonderful. I must hunt out some of my writing from those days. Nowhere near as skilled as yours but it will bring back memories.
Post a Comment