queen of the cows (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} kaoko_cow) wrote,@ 2008-11-14 23:44:00 |
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Sharing shelf space.
There was a black backpack on the shelf, right where he usually placed his. "Is he visiting today?" I wondered. A few months ago, checking for his bag on the shelf was the first thing I'd do. Sometimes, I would sneakily put my backpack beside his where he'd be sure to see it, just so he'd know I was still in school and we could commute home together. I guess it was a force of habit, so I put my green backpack, identical except for the color, next to the black one.
As I was taking a seat, happily wondering whether he was visiting, the door opened and a guy, let's call him Pad, entered the room. He smiled hi and took the seat beside mine and began chatting me up. Minutes go by and no sign of him. Our conversation eventually drifted to art. Pad offered to show me his latest sketches so he stood to get his sketchbook. He went to the shelf and unzipped the black backpack, grabbing the well-worn sketchbook within. I exhaled with disappointment. I didn't realize I was holding my breath as Pad's hand was making its way to the bag. "It's not his. He's not here." ran through my brain.
Putting my disappointment aside, I just went and smiled, arguing and laughing, pinching and punching the owner of the other black backpack, as we went through his drawings and my stories. An hour or two later, I decided it was time to head home.
"Bye, I'm going ahead," I told Pad, then headed toward the shelf to grab my bag. "Wait," he replied, standing up and grabbing his own backpack. The other black one. The black one that wasn't the one I was looking out for. "I'm heading South too. Let's go home together?"
"Sure," I replied, and off we went.
The backpack in the photo is Pad's, so is the painting on the front pocket. And yes, we're still together.
There was a black backpack on the shelf, right where he usually placed his. "Is he visiting today?" I wondered. A few months ago, checking for his bag on the shelf was the first thing I'd do. Sometimes, I would sneakily put my backpack beside his where he'd be sure to see it, just so he'd know I was still in school and we could commute home together. I guess it was a force of habit, so I put my green backpack, identical except for the color, next to the black one.
As I was taking a seat, happily wondering whether he was visiting, the door opened and a guy, let's call him Pad, entered the room. He smiled hi and took the seat beside mine and began chatting me up. Minutes go by and no sign of him. Our conversation eventually drifted to art. Pad offered to show me his latest sketches so he stood to get his sketchbook. He went to the shelf and unzipped the black backpack, grabbing the well-worn sketchbook within. I exhaled with disappointment. I didn't realize I was holding my breath as Pad's hand was making its way to the bag. "It's not his. He's not here." ran through my brain.
Putting my disappointment aside, I just went and smiled, arguing and laughing, pinching and punching the owner of the other black backpack, as we went through his drawings and my stories. An hour or two later, I decided it was time to head home.
"Bye, I'm going ahead," I told Pad, then headed toward the shelf to grab my bag. "Wait," he replied, standing up and grabbing his own backpack. The other black one. The black one that wasn't the one I was looking out for. "I'm heading South too. Let's go home together?"
"Sure," I replied, and off we went.
The backpack in the photo is Pad's, so is the painting on the front pocket. And yes, we're still together.
