The Pen

Despair. And a pen.

     I wandered into the classroom at around five to nine on Tuesday. I took my usual seat on the left side of the aisle, in the back row of auditorium-style seats. I dropped my bag on the cold, white tile and shlumped back against the cushion, placing my elbows on the hard armrests on either side of the chair. I looked around the large, open room: the fluorescent white lights all along the ceiling, the slanted floor leading down to the stage at the front of the room like a river flowing into a delta, the large white board that covered the whole white wall behind the small wooden podium. I pulled out a notebook and a black ballpoint pen. I twirled it in my hand until the lecture began. I seldom took notes, but I liked to twirl the pen. I stared at it winding its way through my fingers and felt proud. I had been building my little, insignificant talent for years, ever since the hellacious time that was middle school, and I had gotten pretty good at it. I kept it spinning for several minutes and wondered how long I could keep it going.

     She walked in about ten minutes late, as she usually did. She silently came down the aisle and slipped into the seat directly in front of mine, as she usually did. Her bag was half unzipped by the time she sat down and she quickly pulled out her notebook and pen and began copying notes from the board.

     The spinning pen slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor with a small noise. She didn't notice. I leaned forward to pick it up off the ground and my chair made a slight creaking noise. Her pen never left the paper. As I sat back against the semi-soft cushion, I got a whiff of something flowery. I sniffed softly and caught the scent again, some kind of heavenly lavender shampoo. I gazed at her now without twirling. She used her fingers to tuck some of her beautiful blonde hair behind her ears and it hung down on the side of her face like golden silk. I wondered if her hairstylist was King Midas himself. On this particular day, she had it up in a loose bun, which was atypical for her. Her smooth, lightly tanned neck was exposed down to where her hot pink hoody began and it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out and gently touching her nape.                           

     I suddenly put my hand up to my face and partially covered my mouth, as if I wasn't sure if I was about to say something. I thought I felt a slight pain in my chest. I glanced down at the pen in my own hand and then back up to my picture of perfection. I now had a battle going on in my mind. On the one hand, I had an overwhelming desire to reach through the void and find the warm flesh with my icy fingers; on the other, a feeling just as strong telling me to grip the pen and plunge it deep within my chest in an attempt to quell every feeling but hurt. I felt myself apply more pressure to my face and I blinked hard. I took a deep breath and slowly lowered my hand, back down to the armrest. I still felt tense, like my arms might just pop right out of their sockets at any given second, but I continued to stare down at her.

     I wondered what she was like. Where did she live? What was she studying? Did she work? How big was her family? What was her favorite color? Was she religious? What kind of music did she like? Did she ever think about death? What were her hobbies? Did she enjoy this class?

     Did she have a boyfriend? A girlfriend?

     Did she know who I was?

     She dominated my mind until the lecture ended at 10:15. She gracefully put her belongings back in her bag and stood at her seat. She slid the straps over her shoulders and tightened them. She turned and began her ascent towards the door at the back of the room. I stood at my seat and watched her until she reached the door, never looking back. I gazed at the spot where I had gotten the final glimpse of her figure as she disappeared through the door and wouldn't return for a whole week, a lifetime, an eternity. The heavy door swung shut, but didn't make a sound. At that moment, there was a small flash. I looked up at the ceiling to see that one of the fluorescent lights above my seat had gone out. I stood there for a moment before looking back at the door and then down at the small, black pen in my hand. I slowly gripped the pen in my fist and turned it so that the point was facing my chest. I brought it towards me and pressed it against myself. I pressed harder. And harder.

     “Ow.”

Author's Note

I welcome any and all feedback. Thanks for reading.