Words on a page

Corran awoke in the night with a panicked start. A painful gasp escaped his lungs as he sat straight up in his bed. Howling had begun directly below his open window and his shaking legs rushed to look out. There in the grass, half lit by moonlight, lay the form of his elder brother Theodore. Clad in nightshirt, dressing gown and his thick riding boots, Corran rushed down the stairs and burst (quietly, if you will) out the door.
His brother was cold as death, but still breathing when the young man finally reached him. One of the dogs, who produced the frightful howl, stood at Theodore's side. Two years ago, this had been a common occurrence, a routine. But tonight of all nights, Corran stormed inwardly at his elder brother's drunken carelessness. He had been drinking and gambling once again and tonight managed to stumble in a stupor to his father's front door. When the first of these episodes began, Corran vowed he would never permit knowledge of Theo's behavior to reach Sir Edward, for his father's sake as well as Theodore's. The aging man already knew his eldest son's (once his pride and joy) gambling habits and loose acquaintances-- what would happen to Sir Edward's health and dignity if he knew the full extent?
Corran dragged his unconscious brother up the staircase without a sound. Thankfully, Theo did not begin groaning until he was safely down the long dim hallway and behind a closed door. Corran administered a glass of something to delude the concentrated effects of the liqueur, set an empty basin beside the bed and left his brother to recover. He would not sympathize with Theodore's certain head pains in the morning; he only hoped the booze and brandy would not have any lasting effects.
The next day did not set Corran's nerves at ease. He was troubled and nervous all morning at his brother's disturbing aspect. A haze from the previous night's drinking bout still lingered in Theodore's eyes and his mind and voice were confused. Exhaustion, it seemed, produced the beginnings of a fever and Corran feared calling for a doctor. He managed to obtain the services of the local town doctor, the physician of one of Sir Edward's tenants, who knew how to keep a secret.
Near evening, however, the haze and fever subsided, and Theo fell into a heavy sleep. Corran thought it safe enough to let his brother to himself. This meant, unfortunately, that word had to be given in some form or other to Sir Edward that his eldest son had returned home, never mind under what circumstances. Corran's instinct was to enlighten his father through Pearl somehow; as his only daughter and sweetheart, she had a knack for softening the blow of troublesome news. But this was a trick he'd long outgrown. It was, in any case, he who discovered Theodore on the doorstep and if he was any kind of man he would have the courage to approach the subject himself, despite his father's uneven temper.
The conversation began, as Corran was well prepared, with initial anger. The trust Sir Edward had once placed in Theodore Lennox had long since declined and the truth Corran carefully omitted about his situation, Sir Edward quickly suspected.
"What is possibly left to him now?" Sir Edward said despondently. Hands clenched behind his back, he paced the polished floor before the fireplace.
Corran knew better than to attempt an answer.
Sir Edward stopped and turned to his son. "I might as well tell you now, Corran, that your brother will not retain much inheritance when I am dead. There is not much now that I would trust him with and I know that you will dutifully care for your stepmother and sister when I am gone."
Corran's eyes darted to his father's face. "I don't understand you," he said, a painful feeling of apprehension growing in his chest.
Sir Edward let out an impatient sigh. "Of course you do. I know full well how you recoil from participating in the prosperity this family enjoys. It is a responsibility I would rather not impart, knowing how it would burden you. Still, there is nothing else for it. You had better grow accustomed to the idea and rest your thoughts on future plans."
Corran rose from his seat, gripping his fists at his sides. "You cannot think of tying me here... surely you're not serious!" he said, completely abandoning his calm disposition.
Sir Edward's eyes flashed. "Understand, Corran, this estate and the wealth it entails will be yours and you must accustom yourself to the idea. Take pride in what generations of men have worked to vouchsafe you."

Corran sat where his father left him for hours, attempting to dispel the combination of dread, anger and disbelief that invaded his thoughts. He could not possibly accept sole inheritance of his father's wealth; yet it seemed he had no choice. Something dark and heavy lingered on his chest; it would cost him many sleepless nights and more.

Brontë

'Don't talk any more of those days, sir,' I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do--and do soon-- and all these reminiscences and these revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult.
'No, Jane,' he returned: 'what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer-- the Future so much brighter?' I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion. 'You see now how the case stands-- do you not?' he continued, 'After a youth and manhood passed in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you. You are my sympathy-- my better self-- my good angel-- I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you-- and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.'

Fading

Bubbles one afternoon

Brontë

'...I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade--the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom; but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you-- but you did not: you kept in the school-room as still as your own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me-- or if you ever thought of me; to find this out I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance and genial in your manner when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent school-room-- it was the tedium of your life-- that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful, happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble-- a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be-- whether I was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to stimulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart.'

Words on a page

Corran rose the moment the sun's warmth touched his face. Slowly, he traveled across the floor of his room to the window, which he slowly unfastened and opened. Glorious day, he breathed. He had become restless and impatient with the previous raining mornings and cloudy afternoons, though he would have no scruples in drenching himself for the sake of a morning ride and an escape from the stuffy indoors. His father, on the other hand, would have been less than happy with a wet, sullied, careless son and for Sir Edward, Corran Lennox would patiently last a year's duration of dull, indoor afternoons.
The promising weather thrilled Corran's mood and an abnormal burst of energy-- for so early in the day-- quickened his waking progress. It barely took him more than a minute or two to dress, breakfast and saddle his mount before he was off. Luckily, his ride was similarly spirited and easily animated; it was the reason they made such a genial pair. Sir Edward, who knew well his second son's habits, often took the opportunity to remark on Corran Lennox's superior horsemanship with the purpose of disguising one of his son's many eccentricities. It wasn't so far from the truth, in any case.
The day was glorious; a breeze unaccompanied by high winds, warm without excessive heat, dewy and sultry without soggy saturation hanging heavy in the air. The sun squeezed between the trees and flitted past the summer leaves, crossing Corran's path through stages of light and shadow. After a time of strenuous racing, Corran began to feel guilty and let his horse slow to a walk; besides, his back and legs felt unnaturally stiff. He let his tense muscles relax and leisurely took in the refreshed landscape and heavenly day.
The trees parted after a moment and the leaf-strewn forest path became a well-trodden hay-wagon roadway. The sun did not favor the woods over the fields; they were green and golden patched and Corran grinned for the happy aspect. Morning rides always succeeded in effecting a more agreeable mood. This beautiful day, he happened farther from the manor than usual; his ride circled the purlieu of town. Traveling back towards Lennox fields, Corran passed a young woman, seemingly absorbed in a book. An armful of similar items rested in the crook of her arm; he wondered how she managed to carry, walk and read all at once. Curiously, and for some unknown reason, he was struck by the girl's appearance; her dress was uninteresting enough, drab and plain. But her face and figure exuded something unnaturally graceful and salient. He turned in his seat to watch her pass. Later, he laughed at himself; his frame of mind was entirely too careless and externally absorbed.
Upon arriving home (to his father's home) he was assailed by his sister Pearl, who demanded to know why her new governess insisted she spend an hour painting.
"A whole hour!" the golden-haired girl cried, raising her eyes to heaven in exasperation.
Corran laughed and pulled a fistful of curls. "If anything, it will teach you patience-- a lesson you sorely lack. But what could be so odious about painting?"
She glowered until he finally released the fistful and at his last words, stared at him in astonishment. "Have you ever sat for such a long time and tried to make colored water into a picture?" she replied, crossing her arms.
"No," he admitted, grinning down at her.
"The argument rests," she replied. "Go and tell her it's a useless endeavor. She might as well teach me to sew and I could forever have bloody fingertips."
He did not usually entertain his sister's objections, but this morning they humored him. "Why don't you take your demands to your mother?" he said, still grinning.
Here her triumphant smugness melted into a sulky scowl. "She won't listen. And of course Father won't argue against Mother's decision. Oh, it isn't fair!"
Corran tousled her hair. "Then, I'm afraid, it's useless to come to me with your grievances." He handed the lead to the impatient stable boy and headed through the courtyard.
Upon reaching the base of the staircase, a servant approached with a letter. As he sat once more by his room's only window, he opened and read it. He grinned at its contents: another of Mr. Brooks' country soirées--he had taken to disguising the invitations with commonplace paper notes and otherwise little adornment. Brooks knew as well as Corran that Sir Edward could hardly find it in his heart to forgive his son of such base associations, much less similar societal gatherings. It was the one thing Corran had a hard go at forgiving Sir Edward for; pride ruined the opportunity his father might have in befriending sincere, genuine, generous people. Anyway, Corran never had such a thrilling time milling and conversing with rich strangers. He happily anticipated the event.

Brontë

'In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since--the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard meadows; and as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on the stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about a misfortune that befell me long ago and a wish I had for happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words: but I read its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to this effect: --It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place--such as the moon, for instance--and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.'

Words on a page

Corran Lennox loved his father. It was clear and plain in the young man's actions and expressions. However, Corran knew his father's pride in honor and title and though he respected such pride, he generally felt an aversion to it. Though born of a wealthy ranking and entitled to most everything a gentleman could want, he preferred the periphery to the limelight. He could never be comfortable in circles of elegant, arrogant women and stuffy starched gentlemen and he abhorred the cold, spacious rooms and echoing halls of his father's manor. Instead, his constant companion was his horse and his haunts were the fresh forests and hills of Lennox land. He was on uncommonly friendly terms with his father's tenants and workers, with whom he shared his thoughts and conversation. Many of them knew Sir Edward's plans to bequeath the Lennox estate to his second son Corran and could not have been more pleased, for they greatly esteemed the open and amiable character of the young man.

To the rich young women, Mr. Corran William Lennox was the most eligible, sighed-after young gentleman in the country.

Too bad he avoided them like the plague.

Blossom

More words on a page

Mr. Corran William Lennox resided in the country. His father, Sir Edward William Lennox, was a man highly respected and esteemed as well as highly prosperous. The name Lennox resounded in the upper-class ear with a heavy echoing note and was constant on the lips of well-to-do neighborhood gossipers. However, the piteous blows that would level any other man of precarious social-standing only stood to boost Sir Edward to admiration in his peers' eyes.

The late Lady Melanie Lennox bore two sons to her beloved husband before her life was taken by illness. Sir Edward, though a proudly stiff man, sincerely loved Lady Melanie and this first blow nearly drove him senseless. Three full years straightened his back and his resolution once again. He remarried the fourth year to a gentle woman of noble birth, fifteen years his junior. She, frail and slight as she was, gave him a daughter, Pearl.

A second blow to Sir Edward's pride only stiffened his backbone. Mr. Theodore William Lennox, Sir Edward's eldest son, was a drunkard and a cad. Nothing Sir Edward would do could reverse the harm this did to the family name save disinheritance, and since his pride outgrew his fatherly love, this was just was Sir Edward set his will to.

Words on a page

Frances was the opposite of her younger sister Ceci. Frances was timid, fragile and boring with a pallid face, sour expression and limply lank figure. She had little to say on any subject and no interest in reading, writing or fine arts. Instead, she was an avid knitter. At least such an activity kept the blood circulating through her fingers.

Upon first impression, Ceci was often deemed a silly girl. This was due to the fact that she loved to laugh; she found joy in many people, things and places such that a smile was her constant adornment and a laugh was never far off. To the people who knew her, she was a character of extremes; her face uncannily betrayed her darkest anger and her deepest anguish which were rarely provoked. To the people she cared for, they were emotions one never wanted to rouse for the consequences were very high and terrible.

I say many, upon first introductions, found Ceci a silly young woman; however, she was very clever, informed and well-read. The depth of her knowledge was not exact but she learned quickly and eagerly. She knew very well the refined ladies and gentlemen would deem her helpless and hopeless musically; still, she possessed some talent in painting and most enjoyed writing. She belonged out doors; her friends were farmers and she spent hours in her father's woods, daring Mrs. Eleanor Moore's dignified disapproval.

A Mr. James Carter, farmer by profession, was perhaps Ceci's most devoted admirer. He fell easily for the soft, rosy girl with the dark ringlets who happened every morning past his field. Shy but determined, he made his admiration known to Ceci and she permitted his attentions... carelessly, perhaps. She was flattered, but not touched by his devotion. Still, she resolved that if no other man impressed or upset her, she would consent to be Mrs. James Carter and would be ever more tied to the land.

Words on a page

Cecilia Olivia Moore had never once met with disappointment. She sat by her sister Rebecca's bed for hours the night the girl first had her heart broken. Ceci herself maintained the good fortune of a young heart still intact, but all the same she declared to her sister her fixed hatred for all members of the wealthy class and stubbornly refused to characterize them as anything but heartless, self-centered snobs. From that day, she vowed never to associate with anyone claiming the status, and for a long time easily fulfilled the promise. The wrong endured by her elder sister at the hands of a young gentleman (perpetually bedecked in ridiculous finery in Ceci's memory) was fresh in Ceci's mind even after Becca was taken up by a young lawyer and swept off to the coast of Ireland.
Such was Ceci's worst fault: that of stubborn, unforgiving prejudice induced by any disappointment suffered by the ones she loved. Not such a terrible vice, perhaps, especially given her reasoning.

In any case, Miss Cecilia Moore was the daughter of a middle-class gentleman. Mr. Timothy Moore boasted two most noteworthy treasures: a remarkably large library for so small a household space and an impressive acreage of meadow, farm and wooded land. The first was mainly on account of the interests of his daughter Ceci, the second thanks to an inheritance that spanned five generations. The land Mr. Moore retained had been Moore land for as long as the eldest grandfathers of the town could remember; it was a burdensome honor that would be passed to Quincy, Mr. Moore's eldest son and youngest child.

Though Ceci loved her father's land much more than her little brother Quincy, she recognized her fate from an early age. She would receive little to no inheritance--money or land; thus her primary duty was to secure a successful husband who might offer her comfort and protection. If she succeeded in that scheme, she would be expected to provide grandchildren.
Still, at nineteen, she did not fret. As yet she had no reason; she had never once been disappointed.

Baby

L-O-V-E

Oh Art building, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Oh, the beauteous gargoyles that bedeck your brick exterior; the bronze statues that beautify your grass grounds; the charcoal dust embedded in the concrete outside your squeaky doors; the graffiti outlines that stain the ground of your sidewalks; the dangerous wire and netting that poke out from your entrances from forgotten student projects; the lovely whiteness of your sunny windowed gallery; the bumper stickers and odd expired art show pamphlets that hang from studio doors; the creepy clay-stained bathroom doors; randomly placed chairs, wooden blocks, misplaced drawings and paper-cutters; the warm studios but freezing lecture hall; and the apple trees that blossom outside your windows without fail every spring. Oh Art building, how I love thee. And how I look to the time I may spend within you next fall in your painting studio. I always treasure the time we spend together.

Our little life

PROSPERO:

These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest
Act 4, Scene 1

Emmaus

Rain

Somehow it was alive.
It grew out of the page, threw itself out at you, even if you only glanced for a second.
This is how she wanted it; she wanted to spend every minute in this tiny, cramped space with only a small window and a desk lamp for light. Her friends wondered where she went and what had happened to her; she refused, with kindness, to let them see her space at all. First of all, there was no room and second, well... it was an experiment, wasn't it? Not just one, even; many many experiments overflowing the wall space and spilling out of the corners, growing off her desk. So many lovely lively experiments that could be anything and would never truly be finished. That was alright, because to her there was nothing more beautiful than a blatantly unfinished piece; it took so much will power to stop and let it be and understand the wonderful potential it could possess.
In her space she was alive without worries; she didn't bother herself over school and the future because she knew her experiments contributed to her future in a valuable way. She didn't worry about work because her pieces always had the potential as a source of income (even though she abhorred the idea of selling them to people she didn't know and didn't care about.) She didn't worry about him either. He didn't matter here and sooner or later he would start to not matter in the other parts of her life. And that definitely made her happier.

She sat in her space and listened to the rain and the far-off echo and mumble of thunder. She loved the rain; she was born in the rain. She wanted to make it too; it would be her next experiment.

Bridget

Dazed

"I love the rain. I was born in the rain."

Opportunity

She was suffocating from the stale air of the indoors and her lungs demanded fresh, clean air. She fidgeted the whole hour and a half of her last afternoon class, distracted by the sunshine on her back. Against her better judgment (and her number one pet-peeve) she began to pack her books before the professor had even finished his lecture. He gave her the Look, but she didn't notice. She was the first student out the door.
She bumped into Bridget (literally) in her post-class relief and distracted breath of fresh air. "Where're you headed?" Bridget asked, catching a paper mid-fall.
"The park," she replied, nodding in that direction.
"Hey, I'll join you." Bridget stuffed the paper back in her bag.
She reached the maple overlooking the lake and collapsed on the grass in its shade. She noted that the ground was slightly damp, but decided to ignore it. Bridget, on the other hand, carefully laid her over-sized college sweatshirt on the grass before sitting.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Ah, sweet freedom she thought. Then she stared incredulously at Bridget. "How can you do homework? It's the afternoon--you're supposed to procrastinate for at least six hours before you start that crap."
"Is that supposed to be like, you're supposed to wait twenty minutes after eating before getting in the pool?" Bridget rolled her eyes. "I have a presentation on Friday."
She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her fists. Winter was way too long this year, she reflected. I was sure I'd go insane being shut inside. With these particular reflections, she would always scoff at the stupid commercials advertising all the wonderful stuff you could do up north during the excruciatingly long winters. Ha. Smart (and wealthy) people always vacationed in the warm southern states--or Europe, she sighed--when cold weather hit.
A sudden weariness came over her and she closed her eyes, letting her face drop against her forearms. She mumbled at Bridget to wake her up later. In the back of her mind she knew a religion paper needed writing, but she let her mind wander until her subconscious took over.
She dreamt of her old high school and running up and down flights of stairs trying to find the art studio. She was late, she knew, and the panic only made her clumsy. In her dream she tripped, and her subconscious mind suddenly connected with the rest of her, jolting her roughly out of her dream and back into reality.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was suddenly shining directly in her eyes. She sat up, squeezing her eyes shut. Her muscles were strangely unresponsive; she had to concentrate to make them obey her. She rubbed at her eyes and looked around. Where was Bridget? Her backpack and sweatshirt were still there, but she was gone. Off walking, probably, she thought.
Her stomach suddenly spoke up. Darn that Bridget. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Bridget's number. Then she groaned when the muffled ring tone from Bridget's cell sounded from inside her book bag. Her stomach complained again. Well, fine. She picked up Bridget's bookbag and sweatshirt along with her own and trudged toward the park sidewalk. She figured Bridget would know where she went and hopefully wouldn't freak when she couldn't find her stuff.
She stopped when she spotted someone ahead of her. He sat on a park table, reaching inside a brown paper lunch bag. Gulp. How... unexpected. This was the guy she'd planned to meet all year... though it seemed every golden opportunity resulted in a failure of courage on her part. He was alone; that was good. Her mind screamed golden opportunity! over and over. She stomped her foot. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was definitely... desperate. And pathetic. And a list of other things...
Without reflecting on how ridiculous she appeared burdened with two bulging bookbags and an oversized sweatshirt, she stomped up to the picnic table... and walked right past it. Her mind continued to scream at her, this time louder. Her heart beating wildly, she whipped around to face him.
The good first step: he actually looked up and acknowledged her presence when she turned. The next step was not so smooth. "H-hi," she said, her voice obviously wavering.
His face was either bewildered or confused. But he hinted a smile. "Hi there."
"Um... okay, this is going to sound really ridiculous. But... I just really wanted to introduce myself. And you were sitting here all by yourself, so I thought I would." This explanation vomited out of her in one big splat. She gulped again.
"Oh, yeah... okay. You are?" He looked over his glasses at her and then pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
"Oh! Sorry! I'm Emilie."
"Hi Emilie. I'm Mark."
She nodded, not sure if she should stick out her hand for the customary greeting. So she just stood there awkwardly, desperately hoping he would continue.
"So, Emilie, would you like to sit?" he gestured to the bench opposite him and picked up his sandwich.
"Uh, yeah sure." She plopped herself down on the seat.
"So you must be a real studier with two book bags. Wow. How many classes?" he took a bite.
"Oh, no. One of these is actually my friend Bridget's. Um... she and I were studying over there. An' well, I kinda fell asleep and she took off. I don't know where she went. I was just gonna wait for her."
"Ah, right."
"Yeah... she didn't take her cell either or I could just call her." She shook her head. She knew she appeared overly nervous with the conversation, but so far, so good.
"Hmmm." he answered. He didn't look uncomfortable. On the contrary, he openly stared at her, like he was studying her appearance. Her face burned.
"So... " she continued, after he'd finished the sandwich and gulped down his drink. "What's your major?"
"Music. Well... music and English... and a little bit of Greek." He adjusted his glasses again. Then he shrugged and said, "You?"
"Art. Studio Art and Art History. I guess I'll be minoring in religion or English. Maybe." She shrugged in response.
"So then, what classes are you taking?" He asked, showing a surprising amount of interest for someone previously nonchalant.
But she just assumed he was being polite. She wondered in the back of her mind whether he wanted her to go and leave him alone. So she tried to sound confident when she answered, "Renaissance and Baroque Art-- that's Art History, I guess... a Ceramic Sculpture class, and Portfolio review. And the Reformation, just to even it out."
He grinned. "Ah, those wonderful religion classes." She recognized the sarcasm. "Who do you have?"
"Um... Mills. He's okay. He rattles on a bit, but not too bad."
"Huh, that's lucky. I had Erica Johnson. She wasn't so great... pretty dry. Plus, it was an eight-thirty class." he rolled his eyes.
She laughed. "Oh, I feel for you. I had to take a math class at eight last year. That sucked."
"Oh hey, what year are you then? Sophomore?"
"Junior."
"Oh." he nodded.
"You?" she asked, even though she was already pretty sure. He had the air of a senior.
He sighed. "This is my last year here."
"Oh, that's sad." She didn't pretend to be sorry. "So what are you planning to do after you graduate?"
"Some student teaching. Then maybe grad school. Maybe. I'm thinking I need a break from studying." He grinned.
"Yeah. That's cool though. You play an instrument?"
"Cello."
"Wow. I've always thought that was impressive. My musical abilities are pretty much nil."
"Really? Well, if it makes you feel any better, my art skills are non-existent. I'm limited to stick figures, and even those are pretty bad."
She laughed again.
"So junior... don't you guys have art shows and stuff?"
"Yeah. It's actually up now. The other art majors have some really impressive stuff up in the gallery. You should check it out, if you have time. The art building's pretty close to the music building. You don't really have an excuse."
"Whoa, okay! I'll probably stop by. So what do you have up there?" He leaned forward a bit, propping his chin up on his fist.
"Oh... not a lot, I guess. Some paintings, a couple drawings... some 3-D stuff." She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, even though she was excited at the prospect that he might see her stuff.
"Well, I'll definitely stop by. Sounds awesome. I've always admired artsy people. Heh," he grinned again. "You can usually spot art majors, too. Piercings and colorful and weird clothing."
She pretended to look offended, and noted how quickly she was becoming comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Weird clothing?" Piercings? She looked down at herself. She was wearing black, mostly. Her only other piercing besides the customary double ear thing was a tiny nose stud she'd gotten her last birthday. She nodded at him. "And what about you, huh? I notice you wear a lot of black. Typical sensitive musician."
He raised an eyebrow. "You notice, do you?" he teased.
She blushed... but just a bit.
He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
After a moment of grinning to herself, he said, "so anyway..." and she thought for a sad moment that he was thinking of going. "What are you planning to do after college?"
"Besides live in a box, you mean?"
He grinned. She was beginning to enjoy that grin.
"That's the running joke, I guess. But I think I'll go to Art school. Maybe even somewhere out of state."
He raised an eyebrow. "Out of state, huh? Where're you from?"
"The cities. They have a pretty good school up there, but not exciting enough for me. But how about you? Out of state?"
"Nope. Born and bred right here. I used to live in the cities... where my girlfriend worked."
She was stung inwardly... she'd never thought he might already be attached.
He continued, "But I moved farther south after we broke up."
Relief. She tried not to let it show on her face and hoped he wouldn't guess what she was thinking.
"So you're a city girl, huh? Any favorite city haunts?" He seemed more and more intent on continuing the conversation.
She wouldn't argue. "Oh, there's a bunch of great coffee shops. Shabby compared to the universal Starbucks, but they make the best coffee. And hey, I'm an art freak, right? I spend at least every Saturday in the uptown Art Museum. They have this great new exhibit--"
She was cut off. Bridget was suddenly behind her saying, "There you are, girl! What the hell?"
She looked up and sheepishly shrugged, glancing over at Mark. "Sorry... hey, wait a minute! You're the one who disappeared! Where were you?"
"Where do you think? I got antsy and you were asleep, so I went for a run." Bridget leaned forward on her knees.
She noted that Bridget was out of breath. "A run, huh?" She glanced at him, still sitting expectantly across the table. She noticed he appeared a bit uncomfortable. "Hey Bridget, this is Mark." she gestured to him, trying to appear casual.
"Hey," Bridget waved, still rather breathless.
"Hey," he returned. He fidgeted slightly and for a panicked moment she thought he'd make an excuse to leave. And before they'd ended their conversation properly; she wanted permission to talk to him again.
Thank heaven for Bridget. Instead of ignoring him in her restlessness, she said, "So do you guys have a class together or something?" She sat down on the bench next to her.
"No, actually. We just met." he betrayed a slight grin.
"Yeah," she said. "I kinda interrupted his lunch." She shrugged her shoulders apologetically.
"Hey, no problem. It was a welcome interruption." He smiled kindly at her.
Bridget made a face at her. Her face flushed slightly and she knocked Bridget's ankle under the table. Suddenly Bridget sat up and loudly exclaimed, "Oh! Emilie hun, I just forgot! I have a study meeting I've gotta get to. I should go... I still need to grab some food, too. Damn." Bridget stood up quickly and grabbed her sweatshirt and bag from her. "See you later! Nice meeting you, Mark!" She ran off across the lawn.
She waved at Bridget and slowly turned back to him. "Sorry," she said, "If you have some place to be..."
"Nah," he answered and shrugged. "Not busy tonight, which is a rare occurrence."
A sudden surge of courage egged her on to ask, "Say, if you're not busy... would you maybe like to grab some coffee or something?" Her heart pounded in her ears. That might be good; maybe then she wouldn't hear his 'no.'
"Sure." He grinned and made to get up.
She beamed inwardly and reached down for her bag.
They headed off together toward the college cafe.

And that, my friends, was the start of a beautiful friendship.