The Rest

I arrived on campus for the last time, pensive, brooding behind the wheel. Everything was white, heavy, silent. The entrance to the garage hung open like a great grey toothless mouth, a slick black strip of asphalt lolling out of it like a disobedient tongue.

In the library, the stink of stress-sweat hung in the air like a thick and desperate warning. Students were strewn about haphazardly; a woman in a corner chewing a bagel, a young man sleeping heaped against the wall with his hand stuffed in a text book, three young ladies (that may as well have been one that could have five) huddled around a small table littered with a disaster of books and papers, one chewing her bottom lip, one chittering like a cicada, one lost in bug-eyed wonder, leaning over the splay of books and papers, rapt.

I fart loudly and do not apologize. There is no need. This is an asylum.

 * * * * *

Less than 20 minutes to go before the exam and the room is already mostly filled. There are plenty of new faces. One of them is weeping openly, shamelessly, great heaving gaspings and snortings. Someone, it seemed, moved in to offer comfort but, incredibly, asked to borrow notes.

A girl just asked me if this is the room class is held in. I can't bring myself to respond without sarcasm. I pretend I haven't heard her. She pretends she hasn't asked.

Beyond these walls, a lazy dawn is announcing herself. Students mill like ants through honey. A young man props himself against a dirty window and lights a cigarette. I see none of this, yet I am sure.

This is how it always is.

* * * * *

I have not slept. I cannot sleep. I must sleep. I leave the exam room, dazed and accomplished. It's all over and it's all over. I'm out of the building and on the sidewalk and behind the seat of my car, keys in hand. It occurs to me, "I won't be back. Not for a long while."

I smile. Then I start the car and take the long way home.