By Marina Sage Carlstroem
I pulled back my curtain, trying to escape from the blank, bright screen in front of me. Outside the window, I found only more whiteness: smooth blankets of powder coated the steps on fire escape ladders, cars sloshed through puddles of sleet. The grating rhythm of a metal shovel meeting concrete sidewalk only distracted me further from the work at hand. Try as I might to blame the gathering storm for my avoidance, I hadn’t gotten much of anything done since I’d moved just a few blocks from Oliver.
Almost a year earlier, we’d found ourselves nestled into the corner of the dining hall after our freshman seminar, arguing about Plato over plates of waffle fries. He’d left the table and come back with coffees in both hands—black for him, ice and oat milk for me— I tried to hide my grin behind my cup, surprised that he’d recalled my usual from a hum-drum class ice-breaker. I joked about delegating people into factions based on La Croix flavor preferences, but he’d never heard of them. His lack of a clear British accent masked his ignorance of American culture, but its cadence lingered in his speech, soothing and playful. He spoke softly but not without confidence, like every phrase was an important secret; eyes widening and narrowing like someone trying to get the perfect focus through a camera lens, never leaving my own. Our plates lay stacked and bare on the table as the lunch rush turned to dinner, and we traded playlists, childhood photos, and google map renditions of our homes. I woke up 10 minutes earlier the next Tuesday morning, unsure if I was embarrassed to be putting on mascara for class or excited to have a reason to.
