Thursday

I had enjoyed ten years of being totally irresponsible. The real world had crept in a trickle at a time, leaking into the niche I had so lazily constructed.

I sat in the lecture hall, and the professor droned on and on about the usual “first day of a new semester bullshit. I was doing my best to pay as little attention as possible.

When we were younger, we were spoon-fed our own expectations. Now our heads were being held under the water. The best of us grew gills. The rest...well, you get the idea.

When class ended, I had nothing better to do, so I hit the bar. I sat alone with a drink in one hand, and a pen in the other. When it wasn’t in my hand, it rested on a blank legal pad.

I had written poems and short stories in my youth, with no real hopes or ambition of publication. I suppose even then, I was frightened of the effect the real world could have on my precious ego. But still, everyone is their own worst critic. Any writer, at least.

It was nearly dinnertime. Undergraduates and postgraduates and professors and arm candy came in a trickle, then a flood. I reminded myself of a large stone in the middle of a rushing creek, rooted in one place as all the world commingled against not only with each other, but myself.

This was, all in all, a pretty average Thursday.

The bar had no shortage of women, but I usually lacked the “killer instinct” that is essential to (successful) flirting. I caught furtive glances from across the room, and I felt comfortable alone, just knowing I had the option.

The legal pad stayed blank through the evening, save for a ring left by the empty glass. But I didn’t mind. The ring gave the paper more personality than I ever could.

I shared an apartment with two other students, drama majors. The living space was small, and more often than not, audition sheet music and half-finished scripts were strewn about the floor. This evening, I found comfort in the reliable disorder.

They were cousins, or fraternal twins, I honestly don’t remember.

One of them, Sharon, was reading what looked like a screenplay with intent on the sofa. I saw Charles faffing about in the kitchen. When I closed the door behind me, Sharon looked up for an instant, then kept reading.

I went into the kitchen and grunted a hello to Charles. The microwave hummed, and I reached into the fridge for a Snapple I hadn’t finished the night before.

Then I sat on the sofa next to Sharon and set the Snapple on one of my (many) yellow legal pads, and twiddled a pen I found between my fingers. The Snapple was starting to sweat. Nobody saw a need to speak, and that was fine by me.