in concession.
We construct a makeshift table from the
surrounding scraps of wood and Tate wrangles up a bench for the two of us from
a fallen log. I rummage through my duffle, finally producing the meager rations
I secured from the kitchen last night. We dig in to the buns, picking off the
largest colonies of fuzzy mold and entrusting the rest to our sturdy immune
systems.
“I am excited to see Rian again,” Tate
professes through a mouthful of soggy wheat.
“Eww, Tate. Chew your food first please!
You don’t see me spitting dripping crumbs in your lap.”
He dramatically seals his lips and
proceeds to chew his cud with a thorough efficiency.
“Better?” he questions, opening his empty
mouth to placate me in my request.
“Much,” I reply with a derisive smirk.
Silly boys. Someone has to keep them in their place.
I lean back, savoring the satisfying
spray as my teeth puncture the peach’s imperfect skin. Beneath the midday sun,
I am empowered and I drink in its vibrant fire. Awakening from my reverie, I
offer Tate some of the sweet peach, golden nectar slipping across its rounded
shell. He declines, and I rip off another piece of its intoxicating flesh. In
this clearing surrounded by the sights and smells of nature, I am immersed in
my own private Eden and I surrender to the temptations of my forbidden fruit.
In this bountiful haven, I release all of my anxiety on the gusts of wind
tickling my neck, and allow happiness and contentment to swallow me whole.
We have been walking for hours, and are
only about half way to our destination. When we passed the university a little
while ago, a slight tremor rippled through my body as the eerie silence put me
on edge. The campus is always bustling with movement and the constant mental
activity of its constituents creates a palpable atmosphere of tension and
unrest. Today, however, the buildings are devoid of all humanity and the result
is a foreboding aura permeating the air.
I race to keep up with Tate as we follow
the compressed earthen path ringing the gleaming hospital and manufacturing
plant. It is hard not to contemplate the future when such an imposing monument
to the medical profession is accosting your vision with its powerful whirring
and piercing electric lights. What title will I be branded with at the end of
my schooling? Am I destined to live out my days as a highly specialized surgeon?
Or as a subservient nurse to a general practitioner?
I can tell Tate is plagued by the same
internal questioning. A somber reverence punctures his otherwise effervescent
persona as doubt and worry consume him. These injurious queries can poison the
mind and take root in the soul, especially this close to the SMART’s. In an
effort to halt the deadly flood of apprehension, I rekindle conversation and distract
him from these destructive thoughts.
“So, what do you think of Amy?”
“Who?” Confusion clouds his face as he
tries to place a face to the name.
“Rian’s girlfriend.”
“Oh. Um, I don’t really know her. I mean
I’ve met her once. She seems nice.”
“Oh, please. Nice is just a weak
placeholder to avoid saying how you actually feel about a person. C’mon.”
He smiles reluctantly, “Well, she is a
little stuck up.”
“If she was any more stuck up, the stick
would actually show up in her mouth!” We giggle at this ridiculous image,
stopping to wipe tears as they stream from our eyes. After a few long minutes,
I compose myself and regain my erect posture.
“I am glad that Rian is happy and all,
but she is a piece of work,” I offer. “He’s so kind and bubbly, and she’s
proper and conceited. And her eyes are the color of mud. She’s smart, though.
He could really go places and achieve security with her.”
“She could be worse. I mean he could be
settling for a sarcastic dreamer with an obsession with sairns.”
“Shut up, you prick,” I yelp, punching
Tate’s arm with brute force as I recognize the implicit reference to
We construct a makeshift table from the
surrounding scraps of wood and Tate wrangles up a bench for the two of us from
a fallen log. I rummage through my duffle, finally producing the meager rations
I secured from the kitchen last night. We dig in to the buns, picking off the
largest colonies of fuzzy mold and entrusting the rest to our sturdy immune
systems.
“I am excited to see Rian again,” Tate
professes through a mouthful of soggy wheat.
“Eww, Tate. Chew your food first please!
You don’t see me spitting dripping crumbs in your lap.”
He dramatically seals his lips and
proceeds to chew his cud with a thorough efficiency.
“Better?” he questions, opening his empty
mouth to placate me in my request.
“Much,” I reply with a derisive smirk.
Silly boys. Someone has to keep them in their place.
I lean back, savoring the satisfying
spray as my teeth puncture the peach’s imperfect skin. Beneath the midday sun,
I am empowered and I drink in its vibrant fire. Awakening from my reverie, I
offer Tate some of the sweet peach, golden nectar slipping across its rounded
shell. He declines, and I rip off another piece of its intoxicating flesh. In
this clearing surrounded by the sights and smells of nature, I am immersed in
my own private Eden and I surrender to the temptations of my forbidden fruit.
In this bountiful haven, I release all of my anxiety on the gusts of wind
tickling my neck, and allow happiness and contentment to swallow me whole.
We have been walking for hours, and are
only about half way to our destination. When we passed the university a little
while ago, a slight tremor rippled through my body as the eerie silence put me
on edge. The campus is always bustling with movement and the constant mental
activity of its constituents creates a palpable atmosphere of tension and
unrest. Today, however, the buildings are devoid of all humanity and the result
is a foreboding aura permeating the air.
I race to keep up with Tate as we follow
the compressed earthen path ringing the gleaming hospital and manufacturing
plant. It is hard not to contemplate the future when such an imposing monument
to the medical profession is accosting your vision with its powerful whirring
and piercing electric lights. What title will I be branded with at the end of
my schooling? Am I destined to live out my days as a highly specialized surgeon?
Or as a subservient nurse to a general practitioner?
I can tell Tate is plagued by the same
internal questioning. A somber reverence punctures his otherwise effervescent
persona as doubt and worry consume him. These injurious queries can poison the
mind and take root in the soul, especially this close to the SMART’s. In an
effort to halt the deadly flood of apprehension, I rekindle conversation and distract
him from these destructive thoughts.
“So, what do you think of Amy?”
“Who?” Confusion clouds his face as he
tries to place a face to the name.
“Rian’s girlfriend.”
“Oh. Um, I don’t really know her. I mean
I’ve met her once. She seems nice.”
“Oh, please. Nice is just a weak
placeholder to avoid saying how you actually feel about a person. C’mon.”
He smiles reluctantly, “Well, she is a
little stuck up.”
“If she was any more stuck up, the stick
would actually show up in her mouth!” We giggle at this ridiculous image,
stopping to wipe tears as they stream from our eyes. After a few long minutes,
I compose myself and regain my erect posture.
“I am glad that Rian is happy and all,
but she is a piece of work,” I offer. “He’s so kind and bubbly, and she’s
proper and conceited. And her eyes are the color of mud. She’s smart, though.
He could really go places and achieve security with her.”
“She could be worse. I mean he could be
settling for a sarcastic dreamer with an obsession with sairns.”
“Shut up, you prick,” I yelp, punching
Tate’s arm with brute force as I recognize the implicit reference to
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