James, Don't Falter - 2. 19 Minutes

At 12:45 the hallways were thin cities, with various colored cars zooming by while the skyline shone fluorescent suns and the houses all looked the same, and could only be entered by unlocking a combination. At 12:49 the hallways were vegetable grocery aisles on Thursday mid-day, with a few leisurely shoppers hunting for a conversation to buy from another sluggish acquaintance. At 12:50 the hallways were humdrum alleys no one bothers to look down, but occasionally notices the single piece of trash wafting by in the wind, and at 12:57 the hallways belonged to James and me.

The view from the window near the third floor art annex was of the lunch courtyard, which was always left vacant by the abrasive winter months. At 1:02 we stood watching the empty space: the brittle emaciated branches that framed the window, the thirsty tree trunks that endured scores of snow, the benches we sat on in August, the absence of squirrels, the unwelcoming air, and the unforgivable cold, which tinted the courtyard in a screen of grey.

At 1:04 our feet grew impatient like his jittery white fingers, which yearned to hold my damp palms that yearned to be held in his nervous hands. We ambled down the desolate city, underneath the fluorescent suns, gently sliding one hand down the walls, as if neither one of us had a class to be in. I learned to anticipate the mazes in the grain of the white stone walls. Through the daily peripheral and hasty glances from academic city slickers the walls appeared smooth like eggshells, but my fingers revealed a jagged truth: an intricate unplanned pebble population creating crumby pathways for my fingerprints.

At 1:09 we would reach the fountain. James held my hand while he drank; I did the same. We stood by the fountain countless times, right outside of open classrooms, whispering about our shared fantasy of a place where water fountains streamed what ever drink you were currently thinking of at the time, which meant I would regularly get grape punch when I pulled the water lever, and James would get a milkshake.

The massive east platform staircase was our echo room. The sounds of our clamoring hollers and bellows reverberated as if a mirror was reflecting our boyish noise. At 1:11 we stood silently listening to the banisters and walls scream back at us with our own voices, and then we would excitedly refill the air with our racket in anticipation of hearing it all over again. Sometimes I wondered how nobody else heard anything.

At 1:14 our excursion would end when our legs had taken us all around the east side of the building and back to our meeting place. I would have walked to the north or west or south side with him, or just stayed still by the courtyard window, or taken another trip around the east side if only to hold his hand tighter, or savor his smell longer, with a fierce and deliberate memory to store away his scent and touch so that they would forever be engrained in my head.

James’ parting words were no sweeter than apples are blue, just curiously pleasant. I often wanted to ask him to say something more reassuring, to guarantee that my feelings were being reciprocated, but I never did for fear of him disappearing. So at 1:16 I listened as we both began to head back to our classes as he simply said, “See you.”