When the Clock Strikes the Hour

I’m not composed at all in this tranquil space. A squirrel leaps from inside the trash can and startles me. A spider crawls on my neck and creeps me out. Mosquitos keep trying to get one over on me. There are two bumps on my arm and one on my face from where they’ve finished feasting.

The fountain is placed in the middle of a brick octagon surrounded by very tall trees. Out of a basin shoots a geyser into a basin with four tiny geysers. It makes a pleasant type of static noise with its soothing rush of water, but when I stand too close, it smells like a hotel pool.

So I sit on one of benches that ring the inside of the octagon, to be close but not too close to the water and its bubbling and effluence. I settle down. My breath slows. It goes inhale for a long time, then exhale for a long time. My shoulders relax. My face and jaw unclench. I’m not in a rush. I sit with deliberation. I look forward to seeing T.

At my feet, a plaque:

IN HONOR OF ANNE MARIE LAURANON FOR HER 21 YEARS OF TIRELESS DEDICATION AND LASTING CONTRIBUTIONS AS R-MC’S DIRECTOR OF MARKETING AND COMMUNICATIONS

Ants crawl single file across my shoe. Three students walk across campus wearing black-and-yellow, the school colors, because they’re Yellow Jackets. They walk in the direction of BROCK COMMONS. A bell rings five times. Sweat slides down my forehead. I haven’t felt a breeze for who-knows-how-long. My stomach punches the inside of my abdomen, for all I’ve eaten today is a banana. (Sometimes the day goes too fast, and I forget to eat.) The mosquito bites have swollen. My face and arm itch.

T and I have a whole unscheduled weekend. We’ll probably spend it never leaving the apartment, eating, drinking, reading books, watching movies, having sex. I cannot wait to see her. My phone says 4:58 p.m.

While I wait, might as well compose a poem:

pink petals flowers brick green doors buildings cream windows red flowers trees mulch yellow chairs red brick come on come on let’s go I just want to be home.