First snow tonight. We were walking home, admiring the purple rim of clouds that clutched the treeline, when suddenly there were white flashes in the palisade of street lights surrounding the police station.
My sleeve was dotted dark, and although we couldn’t see them, faint pellets hit our foreheads, stinging and colder than the air.
It reminded me of freshman year, when we watched Underworld in the Cow Palace, and went outside halfway through to find an inch of snow on the ground and fat flakes falling. Of that night, the only written record I have is a small journal entry: “October 9th and it’s snowing in Morris. I love it here.” Still, I remember how amazed we were, how even Evan was in disbelief, how quiet the campus was, how lovely with white draped over roofs and tumbling softly down gutters to the sidewalks.
But I’m inside currently, having dragged myself away from such sentimentality for the research that has been tugging at me for some time now.
There was an open mic night going on downstairs; I had to open the door carefully when I came in, for Joey was crouched on a chair reading from a book I’ve never heard of, and a dozen of my friends listened with cocked heads and clutched guitars or sheets of poetry or warm beers.
The party went out a few minutes ago, though. They’re going to a house called The Bakery, which is self-explanatory, I think. Before they left, someone shouted up to me:
“Bye Holly, I love you!”
“Bye Zak, I love you too!” I returned.
And then the door shut and the house inhaled and I turned back to my work.