Mayflower Hill
During exams, they commandeered adjacent study carrels. Every sixty minutes or so, someone would rap on the partition, or waggle a disembodied hand in the air, and they’d adjourn for a smoke.
The library faced north, down a sloping hill: the west side of the quad was devoted to the Sciences — and to the east, Humanities. The tremulous glow of Waterville (pop. 15,605) shone in the distance, accompanied by a pulsating radio tower that went unnoticed by day. Their breath had mass — took form — infused with tobacco smoke: after a drag had been expunged, they’d force yet more air from their lungs — and become light-headed, like a swimmer held under for too long.
Every year it snowed by Thanksgiving, and lasted longer than anyone thought possible, so there was little evidence of the moon or the stars. Light seemed to travel the opposite direction, actually, emanating upward — the scattered, blue beacons of campus security feebly beseeching the heavens.
During exam period, core requirements exacted their revenge. English majors had it easy — but Spanish? Bio? Brodsky once took Oceanography, his “Earth Science” — that was a bloody slaughter. Mostly, it was a time spent cramming, a battle to retain their sanity on cold, Maine nights.
Oh, and another good spot was the campus canteen — but there they risked distraction by girls and television. At the library, flirting was reduced to glances, and the Internet (still in its nascent form) hardly provided an hour’s entertainment. One could either surrender to tedium, or bundle up and smoke.
It was too cold to sit. Due to their heavy coats and waterproofed boots, their thighs — under weathered blue jeans — were first to discomfort. By alternating pockets, they could keep their hands warm — but soon the creeping numbness worked its way into their extremities, as they hopped from foot to foot. The cold and the darkness had a shushing effect, so rarely did they speak; when they did, it caused their voices to shake.
“I suppose I felt betrayed,” Brodsky can now admit, shivering. “When you quit.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
He shrugs. “Who said it makes sense? It’s like, we were in it together — then you ditched me.”
“I never meant for that,” he apologizes, pressing his chin to his chest. “You didn’t have to quit. I did it for myself.”
“I know.”
He can’t help but petition, “About the trilogy — ”
“Can I please say — without your getting upset? Nobody buys novellas.”
“I don’t doubt it. It would’ve meant something, though, if you’d tried.”
“It would’ve been a waste.”
“But you could’ve tried.”
Inside, a student acapella group performs as a study break: it’s a popular song, and their audience is collectively aware that the next verse contains the word “fuck.” Everyone waits to see if they’ll sing it, and with what enthusiasm.
He breathes into his fist. “You could’ve tried.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“And?”
“I’m thinking.” Brodsky stares off into the distance, past Waterville. “I suppose … I could’ve tried.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
It’s late, it’s cold, and their ears hurt. Brodsky flicks his butt, suppressing a tremor. “You done with that?”
Taking one last, wet drag, “Yeah.”
As he holds open the door — giving it a worthy tug, his other hand tucked into his armpit for warmth — Brodsky asks, “I can’t remember — do they say fuck?”
“They do.”
“And is there any great response?”
He grunts. The door swings shut.
