Saturday Night

June 8, 2010
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A cloud of anxious whispers buzz into life, pointed accusations clawing at the way you bite your lips in a sheepish smile. The cheese moon blooms in the dark, and the March Saturday night is deep, cool, and clear, but no one is pleased. You fidget. You grow smaller, shrunken perhaps by the humility, or perhaps by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Or it could be the barely-suppressed echoes of what have you done amongst your peers, several of whom are in soft indoor slippers and thin pajamas with towels draped over their shoulders. A couple of them clad in bathrobes emit an unfriendly aura through their soaked hair, resembling drenched, shivering, miserable mice huddled together in a corner. Those are the most terrifying of all. You blink, gulp, and stare idly down at the cold grass poking your bare toes because the red glares and yellow flashes bother you very much. The fire fighters armed with firm hoses and helmets who went charging in the dormitory building for a striking battle trudge back outside, slow, deliberate, and most likely mad at you.

Arms thrown in the air, you swear to them you didn’t know slightly singed popcorn would trigger the alarm. But you are banned from dorm kitchens and midnight snacks anyway.





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