"You know what I love about you?"
"No, what?"
"I really don't know. Maybe you should work on it and get back to me."
31 March 2009
14 March 2009
Dorm
Jonas navigated the narrow hall redolent with the smells of wet dog, gym socks, and stale soda. Men’s dormitories around the country seemed to smell exactly the same. Jonas equated the scent with freedom, left over teen angst, and fumbling sex.
A blonde boy in only low slung athletic shorts jogged out of his room and turned into Jonas. The boy’s eyes flashed with recognition. Embarrassed, he gasped and stepped back into his room with the slightest bit of a bow.
It would either be blowing snowflakes in Hades or the University was crumbling into Lake Onondoga before the Dean of Students would stalk the residential hallways. Today, however, hell remained a balmy 355 degrees and Syracuse University remained on the hill over looking Salt City.
Jonas was in search of a lost boy named Patrick. Jonas thought of Patrick as lost not because of a missing persons report or other tangible means. Jonas had met the art major after reading many campus security reports noting Patrick’s presence around campus at all hours of the night: drawing in a notebook on the quad at three a.m., photographing various campus sculptures at midnight, or erecting an easel on the library steps at sunrise.
A blonde boy in only low slung athletic shorts jogged out of his room and turned into Jonas. The boy’s eyes flashed with recognition. Embarrassed, he gasped and stepped back into his room with the slightest bit of a bow.
It would either be blowing snowflakes in Hades or the University was crumbling into Lake Onondoga before the Dean of Students would stalk the residential hallways. Today, however, hell remained a balmy 355 degrees and Syracuse University remained on the hill over looking Salt City.
Jonas was in search of a lost boy named Patrick. Jonas thought of Patrick as lost not because of a missing persons report or other tangible means. Jonas had met the art major after reading many campus security reports noting Patrick’s presence around campus at all hours of the night: drawing in a notebook on the quad at three a.m., photographing various campus sculptures at midnight, or erecting an easel on the library steps at sunrise.
11 March 2009
Zydeco
Thomas watched dust rain down from the rafters as the band shook the old community auditorium that one hosted Buddy Holly. With its exposed spiral staircase rising to the catwalk, faux doric columns, and peeling plaster, the historic venue was again jumping with live music.
Glancing around at the crowd, Thomas realized he was extremely overdressed. He shucked his sport coat, loosened his tie, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Half the audience was dancing in front of the stage, but it didn't take Thomas long to spot Aislyn bouncing along with the crowd. Her pale skin glowed in proximity to the stage lights; her face appeared to refract the light, thus, illuminating her gyrating neighbors. Thomas enjoyed watching her lithe body move: shapely calves flexing with each bounce, delicate wrists waving above her head, and bright auburn hair sweeping her shoulders. Then, as if aware of being observed, she turned and smiled at him.
Thomas decided that Zydeco music was the world's most organic mood stabilizer. Everyone dances--even the curmudgeon coffee shop owner. Everyone laughs--the king of laugh where you throw your head back and cackle at the sky. Everyone is happy and she was beckoning him with the crook of a finger.
"What took you so long?" she asked, her breath cool against his cheek.
"I didn't realize you were expecting me," he shouted back.
"Where ever I am, you turn up." Aislyn danced away from him, shaking her hips like a belly dancer.
"I'm drawn to you," he said as the song wound down with a final drum crack.
"Careful. The earth might break open and swallow you whole if you keep saying things like that."
The keyboards marked the intro of the next song rather than the accordian; thereby, announcing a slow song. The makeshift dance floor cleared of people either catching their breath or afraid of being coupled. Thomas turned to find where he'd tossed his sport coat, but Aislyn grabbed his hand.
"Leaving me already?" she asked while firmly pulling him into a slow dance.
"Thought you might need some water or a cool down."
Aislyn pulled away from him and removed her elbow-length gloves and resumed her position in his arms. Thomas flinched when their skin touched. She was cold: seering cold like dry ice, chemically cold, impossibily cold.
"Now you know why I always have on gloves."
Thomas rubbed her forearms but instead of creating warmth, his hands grew cold with the effort.
"I'm okay. I just didn't want you to insist on an unneccessary cool down." She pulled her arms tighter around him stroking his lower back with her thumb.
Glancing around at the crowd, Thomas realized he was extremely overdressed. He shucked his sport coat, loosened his tie, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Half the audience was dancing in front of the stage, but it didn't take Thomas long to spot Aislyn bouncing along with the crowd. Her pale skin glowed in proximity to the stage lights; her face appeared to refract the light, thus, illuminating her gyrating neighbors. Thomas enjoyed watching her lithe body move: shapely calves flexing with each bounce, delicate wrists waving above her head, and bright auburn hair sweeping her shoulders. Then, as if aware of being observed, she turned and smiled at him.
Thomas decided that Zydeco music was the world's most organic mood stabilizer. Everyone dances--even the curmudgeon coffee shop owner. Everyone laughs--the king of laugh where you throw your head back and cackle at the sky. Everyone is happy and she was beckoning him with the crook of a finger.
"What took you so long?" she asked, her breath cool against his cheek.
"I didn't realize you were expecting me," he shouted back.
"Where ever I am, you turn up." Aislyn danced away from him, shaking her hips like a belly dancer.
"I'm drawn to you," he said as the song wound down with a final drum crack.
"Careful. The earth might break open and swallow you whole if you keep saying things like that."
The keyboards marked the intro of the next song rather than the accordian; thereby, announcing a slow song. The makeshift dance floor cleared of people either catching their breath or afraid of being coupled. Thomas turned to find where he'd tossed his sport coat, but Aislyn grabbed his hand.
"Leaving me already?" she asked while firmly pulling him into a slow dance.
"Thought you might need some water or a cool down."
Aislyn pulled away from him and removed her elbow-length gloves and resumed her position in his arms. Thomas flinched when their skin touched. She was cold: seering cold like dry ice, chemically cold, impossibily cold.
"Now you know why I always have on gloves."
Thomas rubbed her forearms but instead of creating warmth, his hands grew cold with the effort.
"I'm okay. I just didn't want you to insist on an unneccessary cool down." She pulled her arms tighter around him stroking his lower back with her thumb.
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