Spring

You guys are stumbling across the quad. Do you [[cut through the quad]] or [[go around]]? It doesn't matter, you're going to [[have sex anyways]]

It's what you've been doing for 5 months now. You're not counting though. And you hope she's not. Because its been 5 months of [[this]].

It didn't matter you're going to [[have sex anyways]]

Stumbling around together when it gets [[too dark to see]]. And [[too cold to walk home alone]]

You wouldn't [[care]] if you had to though. Right?

It's so dark that a misstep threatens to baptize both of our shoes in an especially deep puddle. She shrieks and you laugh too, a little quieter though. You're just sloshed enough to not totally [[care]] if anyone hears.

You meant to ask her out properly today. But you got drunk instead. In the back of you mind, the words sat neatly folded, a tiny, simple invitation that might finally bridge that [[gap of expectation]] that had grown between us over the past five months. By the time the campus lights faded, I started drinking, and the rehearsed sentence had melted with the snow like it had every other [[night]] I’d spent with her. It was just easier like this.

Its been long enough, you think you're both just ignoring it at this point. You don't [[care]].

She shouts for you to follow her, pulling you out of your head, and you tumble through the library’s front doors. The dim automatic lights blink on. It’s empty. Thank [[god.]] The campus masses have fled to revel in the first night of the long weekend, and even the most devoted scholars have abandoned the books for the time being. It's too [[quiet]] ]

That is until the pair of you swept through the doors. Two [[wayward saints]], [[two stupid kids]].

Fuck. Don't think about God right now.

We send our raucous hymns up into the vaulted silence. And I might feel bad about sullying this sacred peace if I was any less drunk, or any more [[religious]]. That familiar feeling in your stomach makes you remember [[what you came here for]].

But you're not a kid anymore are you. And you haven't been for a long time. Perhaps you never were. And as you look back at her, you remember [[why you're here]]. And how you're very much not children.

I'm not religious. But sometimes I do still think about [[god.]]

The two of you stumble to the back of the library, where the stacks of books lean together like old friends. In a secluded alcove between the religion section and self-help books, she sits back on what you only vaguely recognize is a [[study desk]].

Two drunken saints, you kneel at this improvised altar to [[confess]].

The two of you stumble to the back of the library, where the stacks of books lean together like old friends. In a secluded alcove between the biographies and the picture books, she sits back on what you only vaguely recognize is a [[reading cubby]].

She tastes like wine and it's [[sad]] and [[nostalgic]] and [[familiar]].

You don't feel like getting into that.

You don't know what she tastes like without the wine. Oh [[lord]] Something rustles beneath her, mixing with the sound of breath in your ear and you go to move it away but my eyes snag on the crumpled paper of a book you [[recognize]].

She tastes like wine and it's [[sad]] and [[nostalgic]] and [[familiar]].

Your mouth stills against her’s shoulder. Her hand, warm on your back, senses your preoccupation and stills. You stare down at the book. She [[follows]] your gaze.

Neither of you speak. It’s as if the book exhaled a memory. You can hear you younger self [[laugh]] in the recesses of the library. You haven't laughed like that in a [[while]].

Oh [[god.]] You really haven't laughed like that in a [[while]].

You must really be drunk because in perfect, terribly clarity she's there in front of you. And in a gentle, breath‑by‑breath unspooling, her face breaks out in a smile, the wide, unguarded kind you can only find on a child who has just discovered snow. [[And you become both small.]]

I smile back and we criss-[[cross]] our [[little legs]] on the carpet.

Backs against the wall, we read aloud the very passages we once memorized in Sunday school. Voices soft, our words wind through the quiet aisles like vines [[reclaiming stone]].

Backs against the wall, we read aloud the very passages we once memorized in school. Voices soft, our words wind through the quiet aisles like vines [[reclaiming stone]].

Your mouth stills against her’s shoulder. Her hand, warm on your back, senses your preoccupation and stills. You stare down at the book. She [[follows your gaze]].

You must really be drunk because in perfect, terribly clarity she's there in front of you. You and her are walking up and down the pews as girls, reading words you didn't understand, and lighting candles you didn't burn for. [[And you become both small.]]

[[The Bible.]]

You read the final sentence and look back over at her sitting next to you. She’s the same beautiful girl you've been stumbling around with for a while now. But for a moment there you were kids together [[again]]

You can't look at her. Your head hurts, and its suddenly too hot and too cold at the same time. The fever of your childhood first crush, and the chill of your adult guilty conscience. It's quiet between you two and as you walk out of the library back into [[the night]]

The sound of her small voice reading to you is still bouncing around your head, but it's all mixed up with the sounds of her breath in your ear. And you remember you two intertwined on the desk, you can’t shake that image of you criss cross applesauce on the floor. [[You're still those same girls, right?]]

You're nearly home as you realize that it'll be summer soon, and you still haven’t [[asked her for coffee]]. You've been telling yourself you would for 5 months now.

Soon it will be too warm for coffee, and surely you are too old to get ice cream. [[You still think you might do it.]]

You left the library the same woman that you walked in. Except for that you've changed in every way. And you know you'll come back again, [[looking for the girl you were.]]

And you won’t have to be drunk to find her.

It’s warmed up considerably as the morning creeps nearer. Should you tell her goodnight and [[turn to walk home]]? Or should you see this through the morning? ([[For once]])

You would be kinder, [[if you weren't so confused.]]

You're sorry [[You tell her you're sorry.]] [[In your head]]

She just grabs your hand and says it's okay. You get that same feeling you did back in the library. Like you're becoming [[small again]]

You would be kinder, [[if you weren't so confused.]]

You two are nearly home as you realize that it'll be summer soon, and you still haven’t asked her for coffee. You've been telling yourself [[you would]] for 5 months now.

You left the library the same woman that you walked in. Except for that you've changed in every way. Maybe it was something haunting that library that made you feel like this, but it was probably her. [[Actually it was probably you.]]

[[You ask her to coffee.]]

And next time, you won't have to get drunk to do it.