Eons Until I Reach You

The shadows flit across the murky walls as the ceiling lights sway with the vent’s air current. At times, they still and I play a riveting game of guessing what the images resemble- a Starbucks cup. A storm-bent umbrella. A furry cat, stretching its paws. The frigid classroom resonating with Mr. Tanner’s strident voice ceases to din into my thoughts. Instead I fantasize about all the places I’d rather be- a cozy out-of-the-way lake house with a thermostat, at the very least - than force myself to pay attention. Not that I can afford to bid a blithe goodbye to real life anxiety-induced problems and pack my bags to set off for Gramma’s sanctuary in Montauk, have fermented tea (or any tea) in the porch with ‘Evanescence’ looping in the background. That is not to be. At least, not yet. Granted, luck isn’t a dime a dozen. While it favors some, who could do without, and evades a few others who wish on shooting stars for it, all we say is: Aw shucks, it’s all about luck. Fortune. Pristine health. Warm-hearted family who whisks you away on vacations. Perhaps, a crush who likes you back. Or, a chance to go on that road trip you wanted since high school. The scales morph when it comes to measuring luck. In spite of my short-sighted past vision of the world, I like to think I used to be lucky. That I lived in bliss. Fulfilled. Unscathed. With a view of impending happy ending on the horizon. Really, there is nothing wrong with my current life. Not if you measure my not-broke, not-unhealthy, loved-by-family self by the scales. And yet, as I tie my hair back and look forward, as I twirl that fraying pencil between my fingers, and in those bare in-between moments that fill my work-and-classes-juggling day, a gnawing vacantness makes its presence known. I pull down my cashmere sleeves over my knuckles, battling frosty air. Another gust of cold December breeze flutters loose strands of hair across my eyes, and I push it back absently with one hand. The shadows play again. This time, overlapped on the chalky plaster, they taunt me with a face. High cheekbones, slightly slanting eyes. Dark curls framing it all. I pry my eyes away like I’m prying a stubborn cooking-accident from a pan, but it’s too late - the after-image slyly lodging in my mind. Turning light-headed is my brain sending an SOS. “Bree.” I whip my head around. Casey is gawking, ‘can you not daydream for once?’ written on her face. This doesn’t seem to be the first time she is whisper-shouting my name. “What?” I ask, sounding as wary as I felt realizing that the last thing I need is people thinking I’m finally (expectedly) losing my mind. As it is, I walk a tight shaky rope, upholding reputations that I don’t care whether I earned or not. “Oh, nothing.” Casey shrugs, a barely-there lift of one spaghetti-strap clad shoulder. Casey is friend-s***h-colleague at my rent-providing day job. She, like me, had opted for Urban Design part-time courses at Hampton University a year ago. “Just thought to remind you that you might want to look alive. Mr. Tanner might call on us any moment now.” Tanner, our Evolution of Planning professor, is pacing up front, double-checking his notes to see if he missed that crucial corner-stone-y something. With the lecture out of the way, it is review time. A deed we are fain to perform because Tanner ambitiously (and goes without saying, naively) wants his students to fall in love with what he teaches. I am usually better at keeping track of his buzzing voice. Or, lack of. Unless I blank out, shadow-seduced that is. As Tanner edges closer to my atypically sparse row, I scoot lower, running fast out of desk coverage to hide behind. Just my luck that Cam from the seat up front felt like skipping class tonight would be a swell idea. I’m racking my brain for possible legit-sounding excuses when Tanner points a crooked finger at Mandy behind me.  Casey smirks, catching me in the act of letting out a sigh of extrication. Guilt nudges me to pay attention and when I do, I regret my negligent spacing out. Tonight’s lecture was on Renaissance architecture. The last slide shows some gothic building in Florence that looks enthralling- the unexpected angles, the proportions, the uncommon arrangement of columns and semi-circular arches balancing structure and symmetry. The kind that spawns infatuation with the art of architecture in your brain pocket, digs in and refuses to budge. Next fall, even if emptying out the last of my savings accounts is what my then monetary situation calls for, I have plans to visit Italy and explore the gems in person. By plans, I mean I have no choice but to do it. Descort Pvt, the reputable firm I work at, handles commercial and residential space management designs, and is a stellar choice to continue at if it isn’t for one soul-binding impossible-to-back-out-of promise I made. “Don’t stick around. That’s what you promised,” his voice reminds eliciting a grimace. The said promise dictated that I shall not stop in pursuing my architectural dream and make a jarring impact on society- not falling short of a massive topography revitalization. Fundamentally speaking though, I just like to see nice buildings. I can’t fathom why, after I’d convinced myself that the dream no longer exists, after I tried not to care, after the person who made it ceased to exist, the promise holds. Like a bullet I’d shot myself with and lost somewhere in my rib cage. It could be a genetic flaw I was born with. The uncanny ability to corner myself, that is. My mother, blunt and temperamental as she is, learned to never make promises to protect that breathing space. In my case, I am still in the pit from the last one. Sometimes I wonder whether it is the colossal fear-inducing Fate that made me meet him. And if it syncs up with Luck to play dice with people’s lives. What brings certain people into your life and then one day you wake up and they are out of it? Just like that. Like the snap of a finger or glass shattering with a slip of your hand.