Feb 10 2008
I sit quietly on a beige sofa in a yellow room. The floor is of dark, stained wood, the walls are bare, and the blinds have been drawn for the first time since December, revealing spotlessly clean windows we barely knew existed. I sit with my feet tucked under me and my head resting in the palms of my hands. My friend sits behind me on the back of the couch. For once, she is too tired to care about her appearance: her eyes are puffy and red. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and she is wearing blue sweat pants and a baggy maroon sweatshirt. Although I can’t see her, I can hear her sniff and cough and feel her tracing shapes on my back with a bottle cap.
A man passionately drones in a monotone about his savior, Jesus Christ. He tells us of hell and the punishments that await us there, urging us to give up our agnostic and atheist lives and to join his church. The girl next to me is texting inside her pocket. Another watches over her shoulder, sneaking pieces of popcorn into her mouth one by one. Across the room, a teacher tries to hide a yawn, and a glance at his watch. I try not to fall asleep.
My eyes close repeatedly; I force them open again and again. Idly, I play with the charm on my cell phone, feeling my consciousness slip under waves of fatigue. I listen to the birds chirp and stare out of the window long enough to watch a squirrel run across the top of the neighbor’s fence with half a sandwich in his mouth.
I sit there for half an hour longer, feeling the warm, sleepy atmosphere of the room become warmer and sleepier. I think of the beach and wish I could go. I think of lemon sorbet and wish I had some. I cruelly think of a world where the man attempting to convert us to Christianity had never been born and wish it existed. I think of the mounds of homework I have to do and wish they didn’t exist either. I think of summer and wish it was already here.
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