7
The rain had cut back an hour later, after I let the warmth of the fire drive the cold and damp and--for a moment--thoughts of Linda away. I walked back to my dorm as the sun set over the hills, the wooded crests filtering the dying light over the campus in Rorschach patterns. To my right sat the murder scene, vacant save for an occupied unmarked cruiser, the window cracked open an inch to let the cigarette smoke waft out. I walked by with my eyes to the ground.
Our campus was without power when I awoke the next day. My window was encased behind a thick plate of frost, and most of the heat in my room had slipped under the cover of darkness. I had shivered in bed, rolling over and over to get into a better-but-not-good-enough position beneath my sheets; my dreams were distant reflections, faint and fading, indistinct outlines ending in maroon skirts and stockings that bled into a puddle surrounded by twittering canary tape. They lurked in the back of my mind as I dressed, danced in obscurity as I used lukewarm water to shave, and eventually left for good as I trudged to the Snack Shack over icy sheets of mud-water.
A city public works truck was parked several blocks down from the campus, its cherry picker bucket rising predominantly over the surrounding trees. I heard power tools buzzing as I read a note--a hand-written note--taped to the door of the the Shack.
CLASSES CANCELED
UNTIL POWER RESTORED
A blessing and a curse, I supposed; no classes meant more time to goof around, but most goofing around required some sort of power or heat. And no classes meant more time to think. I didn't want to think, especially with the thoughts waiting for me.
The Shack was moderately full, considering the conditions; most of the students probably did the same as I, heading to classes that weren't to happen, opting to loaf at the nearest place with seats instead of trucking back to their dorms or apartments. Matt was waiting at a circular table, his book bag's contents spilling from the opening--mostly early 20th century American lit. Matt was one of those kinds of guys. There was a to-go case resting on the edge of the table, a Styrofoam sarcophagus holding the remains of a dry, withered bagel.
"You look like hell," he said.
I pulled a chair out and sat, slumping on to the table. "I feel like it."
Matt set his book down, an O. Henry collection. "You didn't end up staying in the music building, did you?"
I shook my head. "No. No, I ran to the student center, filled out--" my mind slipped back into the darkened activities room "--a form for the band competition."
"Really? You didn't make up a name for us, did you?"
"No." This was a touchy subject; we were still without a name, and no one could reach a concensus regarding it. Matt was still thinking about a decent moniker, though Guy was convinced that "Supreme Catholic Finger" would be the best name, for any band, ever. "How about you?"
Matt turned his book over in his hands. "There were only three people in the class, so the professor just let us go."
"Not many places to go in that kind of weather." Matt just nodded in response.
I bit my lower lip, searching for words. I posed it as innocently as possible: "Do you know someone that works for the student activities department named Linda?"
Matt continued to stare at the back of his book, like my tangential comment tossed him headfirst into an internalized O. Henry discussion. "Linda Dobbs? Pretty, sort of ethereal?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Matt hummed something to himself, his smile deflating to a dull line. "I'd stay away from her, if I were you."
Not the response I expected. "I was just asking. She gave me the application. Seemed friendly."
A chuckle from Matt. "Friendly; perhaps. Still, just watch yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do. Just watch out." Matt tucked the book into his backpack, pushed in the rest of the novels that crept out, and shouldered the bag as he stood.
I cradled my head in my hands. "Maybe falling for a dangerous woman will add some excitement to my life."
Matt held the bagel container in his hands, backing away from the table. He looked serious. "I don't think 'excitement' is the word you're looking for. Try 'trouble.'"
Our campus was without power when I awoke the next day. My window was encased behind a thick plate of frost, and most of the heat in my room had slipped under the cover of darkness. I had shivered in bed, rolling over and over to get into a better-but-not-good-enough position beneath my sheets; my dreams were distant reflections, faint and fading, indistinct outlines ending in maroon skirts and stockings that bled into a puddle surrounded by twittering canary tape. They lurked in the back of my mind as I dressed, danced in obscurity as I used lukewarm water to shave, and eventually left for good as I trudged to the Snack Shack over icy sheets of mud-water.
A city public works truck was parked several blocks down from the campus, its cherry picker bucket rising predominantly over the surrounding trees. I heard power tools buzzing as I read a note--a hand-written note--taped to the door of the the Shack.
CLASSES CANCELED
UNTIL POWER RESTORED
A blessing and a curse, I supposed; no classes meant more time to goof around, but most goofing around required some sort of power or heat. And no classes meant more time to think. I didn't want to think, especially with the thoughts waiting for me.
The Shack was moderately full, considering the conditions; most of the students probably did the same as I, heading to classes that weren't to happen, opting to loaf at the nearest place with seats instead of trucking back to their dorms or apartments. Matt was waiting at a circular table, his book bag's contents spilling from the opening--mostly early 20th century American lit. Matt was one of those kinds of guys. There was a to-go case resting on the edge of the table, a Styrofoam sarcophagus holding the remains of a dry, withered bagel.
"You look like hell," he said.
I pulled a chair out and sat, slumping on to the table. "I feel like it."
Matt set his book down, an O. Henry collection. "You didn't end up staying in the music building, did you?"
I shook my head. "No. No, I ran to the student center, filled out--" my mind slipped back into the darkened activities room "--a form for the band competition."
"Really? You didn't make up a name for us, did you?"
"No." This was a touchy subject; we were still without a name, and no one could reach a concensus regarding it. Matt was still thinking about a decent moniker, though Guy was convinced that "Supreme Catholic Finger" would be the best name, for any band, ever. "How about you?"
Matt turned his book over in his hands. "There were only three people in the class, so the professor just let us go."
"Not many places to go in that kind of weather." Matt just nodded in response.
I bit my lower lip, searching for words. I posed it as innocently as possible: "Do you know someone that works for the student activities department named Linda?"
Matt continued to stare at the back of his book, like my tangential comment tossed him headfirst into an internalized O. Henry discussion. "Linda Dobbs? Pretty, sort of ethereal?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Matt hummed something to himself, his smile deflating to a dull line. "I'd stay away from her, if I were you."
Not the response I expected. "I was just asking. She gave me the application. Seemed friendly."
A chuckle from Matt. "Friendly; perhaps. Still, just watch yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do. Just watch out." Matt tucked the book into his backpack, pushed in the rest of the novels that crept out, and shouldered the bag as he stood.
I cradled my head in my hands. "Maybe falling for a dangerous woman will add some excitement to my life."
Matt held the bagel container in his hands, backing away from the table. He looked serious. "I don't think 'excitement' is the word you're looking for. Try 'trouble.'"
posted by Jason at 10:28 PM
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