::A Feral Minute::
Swatting the alarm to snooze twice successively, I surveyed the morning. I was no more starved for sleep than any other sunrise and survived those with a simple struggle. I quickly recalled the lack of compassion received at my depression the preceding night. Something had not yet quite settled, but I was satisfied with the sentiment of simply being conscious. Setting my sights on the shower, I persisted with my daily schedule. This instance refused to allow me the simple satisfaction of a slow shower, as I had stomped the snooze setting a second time (a single more than my standard.)
That’s the small section of sleep I was permissed following last sundown’s sinusoidal drama. A staggered sleepwalk towards my steed, and I was en route to my school. Once stopped, no consciousness was needed, as my standard sleepy stagger throughout my last school semester dragged me from my dated dwelling to my first devilish 8:00AM class. Staggering past the said residence, I slinked down the street simply scratching my way to my story of a class. Eyes shut to slits, my vision was restrained by my squinting eyelids, but that’s when the scent found its path to my nostrils.
Suppose it was simply my short sleep that sharpened my senses as such. After all it was not an exclusive smell, rather Victoria’s Secret’s “Love Spell.” A slightly more unique scent, the way it mingled stately with her skin. It personalized the smell ever so discretely, that I was certain of who I had stumbled upon strangely before I released my squinting eyelids. Strangely I suggested to myself I follow her sinewy stature for as stately a segment of time as possible without the cheating use of my eyes, nay I would single-file last my schnoz.
Simple memory struck my back to the days in which I first saw and spoke with her. Since, our paths have diverged, as we no longer speak. We no longer see each other (as even now I would not let myself.) A single silly night severed a fledgling yet surprisingly strong friendship. It was short of sex, but simple ego-stabbing of two under-sexed college students. I swiftly and secretly associated the Love Spell smell with soreness. Not soreness of the heart, as one would simply expect, yet soreness in a sore place I should never be sore in. My suggestion: if a silly girl thinks her silly knees are a sexual object, stop. She’s silly and you’re better off stopping your encounter.
But I digress.
As soon as it started, my sightless stalk ended, as she changed course swaying away from my stupid class. Secretly, I was happy, I was permissed to consider our past from a distance of smell without sight (maybe seventy seconds behind.) I accepted my senses on a level that is not standard in the struggle of the early sun. As she swayed away from my destined target, I did not even start; I simply sauntered to my seminar, took my seat and allowed myself to once again enlist in civilization.