It was silent. The bags under my eyes seemed to sag lower, and my eyelids begged to fall into place. There was almost nothing in the world that I wanted more than to lie down on those cold blue benches and sleep. But it was cold and I’d forgotten a coat. So I kept my eyes open in the vain attempt to awaken myself.
It was the same location where my “moment” had occurred all those weeks ago, and I was still searching for something similar. Today was the first day the air was anywhere near as quiet. From my backpack, I pulled out the book I’d checked out from the library, The Catcher in the Rye. I’ve never read it before, something my AP lit classmates find appalling.
I could watch my breath float across the page and I shoved one hand in between my crossed legs to keep it warm. It was so cold.
Images floated past me.
The shrill desperation in her laugh, like she needed the motion if not the feeling that came with it. Like she wanted so much to laugh and be free, but something was holding her back.
The silent glare as she watched him sit at the table nearby.
His hidden terror that he was going down the same path as his brother.
The clinging she did to make herself feel noticed.
But none of it stuck. Nothing bad could touch me there, in that short period of time. My black Converse crossed over each other as I read classic literature in the cold, gray morning, and I felt nothing but content.
