I watch her fluttering through the room, stopping to chat with the occasional woken student, and shuffling about the sleeping bodies. I’ve never studied this late before and, quite frankly, I’ve never considered doing so. In my mind, all things can be done in the daylight hours. I look at the couch next to me and see the skinny Asian boy sleeping there. Where he lives, I don’t know. I don’t know his name, his major, or his favorite baseball team, but I know that he has been studying. His Latin book is drooping, slightly askew, on the floor beneath his dripping hand, and he is most assuredly dreaming in the language that died with the Romans.
Sally heads back, flailing a flier over her head. I can tell that it’s nothing important, and nothing that I would have the time or means to attend, but I know I will humor her as I always do. She loves it when I listen to her; I don’t think she’s had many people listen to her in the past. She’s told me little about herself, and even less about her past. I’ve wondered about it on many sleepless nights, but it never seemed too important until I returned to it, like a half eaten ice cream cone that has been carelessly tossed in the freezer, right next to the ziplock bag of leftover chicken.
“Andrew! I found one!” She waves the flier in front of my face and I look at what is written. I don’t know why she has been looking for this or why she would want me to see it, but I shall humor her.
The paper is pink. It’s not a hot pink, or a dark pink. It’s not dull pink or light pink. It’s just pink. It’s the kind of pink you would find in your very first box of crayons. There is very little written on it, and what is seems insignificant and incomplete against the vivid space of hearts and flowers. Why is this flyer pink? it says… somewhat below it, I see a small ghost, arms spread out in an still, yet animated shrug. It is a mystery! the ghost says. I look at the flyer and back at my friend. I still don’t know why she was looking for it, and I see now that I was right; it wasn’t anything important. Still, I find it curious that someone would pass out flyers about nothing, on expensive pink paper; I just can’t see the logic.
“We have to log it!” She cries, slapping the page onto the table and fumbling for the bag of our sleeping Asian companion. He stirs slightly, but does not wake. She digs in his belongings for a pen, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at her blatant disregard for the boy’s privacy. I scowl and she smiles when she returns with a pen. She writes down the time, date, location, and various other phrases I haven’t the liberty to read at the moment, and takes the page with her as she sloppily shoves the pen back in the bag and pats the Asian her thanks.
“I’m gonna go scan it!” She laughs, prancing from the library, surely headed for the graphics lab a couple of blocks away. I’ll never understand it, but such is the life of a college student.