imitation, reaction to sebald

Soft earth and cool, almost moist grass cushioned our thighs on the campus grounds. Outside of Murray Hall, the sky expanded in afternoon blue, as if in one continuous breath. The trees dotting the courtyard provided speckled shade, a fair light to sit in.

I did not notice you standing by the walkway earlier. I was searching for your face, clear in my memory, but not as clear as reality, and was taken aback when I had turned around and saw your demure wave. You walked towards me somewhat awkwardly, with a slightly ungainly shift in your stride, but your smile never faltered from pleasant, and your eyes never left mine.

I thought I was bold in looking others in the eye, but my moxie in this department was no match for yours. As we sat, much too far from each other for two youths with poor hearing, your effulgent blue stare captured my line of sight and held it for the duration of our conversation. That kind of honesty in expression made me uncomfortable and anxious. It was pure, like your voice, garbled by a habit of mumbling but free from cynicism and malice. Oh, you’re taking Topics in Math for Liberal Arts too? Isn’t that class so boring? you said, with a genuinely excited smile. I hardly go. When I do, I just drift off into space. Probably explains why I did so bad on the midterm. A sheepish smile followed, and beyond your face I could see the white and green tents of Tent State, pitched farther off on the verdant courtyard. The sun shone from the tops of the cracked vinyl and polyester material and glinted like pairs of eyes blinking in the distance. Birds chirruped from the trees, and I strained to hear your voice through their buoyant lilt, but could only piece together meaning from watching your blushed lips form half-lost words.

We continued on in this way, me struggling to hear you, you staring through me, until thirty minutes had passed. You rose from the grass, brushed off dead leaves from your jeans, and smiled brilliantly, until I could not stand the frankness of your warmth and turned away. Only after a few yards, by the Objet d’Art tent, I stood under the vanilla awning and watched the blue plaid of your shirt disappear behind the golden double doors of Murray Hall, tinted that way by the afternoon sun. Through the tents, the people ambling or playing an energetic game of frisbee on the lawn, each group of them going about their own business in the kind of leisure that perfect weather on a Monday afternoon will bestow, you were a tiny patch of striking blue intensity in a buzzing world.