Archives: February 3-4, 2006

February 3, 2006

I wake at the soft bouncing of my mattress, as Emma sits up in bed. Squinting in the sun as it sneaks through slits in the Venetian blinds of my dorm room, I turn to the clock radio. It's 10:57—early enough so Emma will have time to get back to her place, shower, and make her 11:30 class if she leaves soon. I've already allowed my 10:30 class to pass, and don't plan on leaving bed in the immediate future. Of course, if I'm going to stay in bed, I would like some company.

I sit up and kiss Emma's bare shoulder, before she can cover it with a royal blue t-shirt from her high school's graduating class. She's always quick to cover up, even on days like this, when my roommate isn't around.

I've been with Emma for a couple months now. Our residence halls are right next to each other, and we had an English class together last semester. English is my major, while for her the class took care of a college requirement. In any case, we were assigned to do a group project together. The other folks in the group were slackers—blowing off group meetings, doing their research late—so Emma and I kind of bonded over that. Who knows how these things evolve? A shared complaint here, a joke there. Coffee. An extra meeting, with just the two of us. Lunch. Dinner. Making out in the stacks at the library.

After she has the shirt on, I move on to kiss her at her neck—open-mouthed, wet kisses that I know will slow her down.

“No, Preston,” she whines. “I have to get to class.”

“No, you have to get back into bed,” I counter. She sits at the edge of the bed, while I sit behind her, and lock my hands over her stomach. I push the t-shirt up, so I can press my palms to her bare belly.

Emma pulls a worn black hoodie on over the t-shirt. It's too warm for it here in over-heated Smith Hall, but it's probably all of 20 degrees outside. In pulling on the sweatshirt, she pushes my hands away, and pulls her shirt back down so it meets the top of her underpants. “I can't miss this class again,” she says standing.

“But it's Friday,” I continue, reclining in the bed and propping myself up on one elbow as she slips into a pair of blue jeans. “Fuck, nobody goes to Friday morning classes.”

“How would you know if you've never been to one?”

“Intuition. And in case you're wondering, that's also why I can afford to skip classes.”

“Intuition, huh?” Emma leans over me, “And I thought professors passed you ‘cause you're cute.” She grins and kisses me. She's a great kisser—not too hard, not too soft, just a flick of the tongue to sate me, and to keep me wanting more.

But Emma's up in a flash. She gathers her shoulder-length blond hair behind her head and ties it up in a pony tail. Her hair is as long as I've ever seen it. When I met her, she was a brunette, and her darker roots are just starting show through now.

“You coming back after class?”

“Maybe, if you're good,” she replies, mischievous little smile on her face as she lifts her glasses from my nightstand. That's the final touch. Her vision crystallizes as she looks through those lenses, leaving the blur of the night before behind. She leans over to give me one last kiss, this time on the cheek, before she's out the door and on her way.

February 4, 2006

Emma and I sit in the food court at the mall for dinner. We had planned to go on an early afternoon shopping trip, and be back on campus for dinner. Neither of us are particularly good with time management on the weekends, though, and traveling to the mall at the mercy of Taylor College's shuttle bus, we keep either missing our ride, or deciding that we'll just catch the next one.

Emma picks at a fast food salad with her plastic fork, while I chow down on the sticky spice of General Tso's Chicken. She doesn't like Chinese food, and doesn't seem to indulge in foods she actually does like very often—or at least not in front of me. It seems she's always poking at a salad or lean chicken filet. For all I know, maybe those are her favorites, but I tend to think it's something she does with an effort. It's an awkward topic to ask about.

People buzz by us on all sides, taking seats at the plain white tables beside us, or rushing past us with their shopping bags. There are also the Saturday night teenagers, with nothing better to do than loiter in the open spaces of the mall, or maybe catch a movie later on.

“So I was thinking about arranging the new Directionals song for the Off Beats. You know, ‘Falling Too Deep.'” Emma says, stabbing the juices from a cherry tomato. “What do you think?”

The Off Beats are Taylor's all-female a cappella group. Though Emma only joined the group last September, if there's one thing I know her to be passionate about, it's those girls.

The Directionals are pop-emo music at its worst. Audio ipecac.

“I'm not wild about it.”

“I know you don't like The Directionals. But it's a song people will know. And it's new enough that other groups aren't doing it.”

I finish chewing my chicken and take a sip of soda. “Sure, it's popular. But it's also the kind of song everyone's gonna be sick of by spring time.” Our knees touch beneath the table, denim on denim. “I'm telling you, as an outsider, classics are the way to go for a cappella—stuff that's already stood the test of time.”

“Well you should have come to the Parent's Weekend show if that's what you want to hear.” Our knees still touching, Emma slides her foot to rub against mine. She's not a fan of public displays of affection, but she'll slip in subtle things like this, or holding my hand while she rifles through the discount rack in a clothing store. “I think people will like it.”

“I see what my opinion counts for,” I say looking away in mock dejection.

Emma shrugs her little shoulders. “You want to hear oldies, you start your own a cappella group.”

“Maybe I will,” I muse. “I'll call it General Tso's Army. We'll be international.”

Emma giggles, just as I hear a tinny, instrumental version of another Directionals song. She picks up her purse from in between clothing store and shoe store bags—the fruits of our afternoon and evening. She fishes out her cell phone and begins a conversation. We've grown comfortable enough for her to start such a conversation while I'm sitting across the table. I'm not certain if I should take that as a reassurance or annoyance. I turn my full attention the chicken.