Momentary Blindness

The dining hall is not as loud as usual. On weekends it never is.

“You know-“ I heard. I didn’t hear the rest.

            My phone buzzed, I could feel it.

            Someone is coughing at a table nearby me; she stopped soon after. I hear someone chewing a cookie, someone else sniffle, someone putting a fork on a plate. Someone else is sipping coffee rapidly. The mugs hitting the table sound different than the cups do.

The girl coughed again.

I can smell pancakes- or, I think they’re pancakes. I hope they are. I can smell hot chocolate on the table next to my laptop, the smell of the breakfast of each passerby, the pizza being made, omelets and fruit and dough.  

People continue to come in and out of the dining hall. I’m seated by the entrance, I can hear every footstep. Each conversation in snippets- “I’ll meet you guys right here”, “where’s the restroom?”, “so what do you want to do?”, “and then she…”. The crowds are picking up, I hear a lot of feet shuffling, and a single cane clanking against the floor. The zipping of coats surrounds me as people get up to leave, their brunch coming to a close. The clack of flip-flops against the floor leads me to question the weather, but it’s the weekend, so I don’t question anything. C’est la vie. Someone’s sneakers are squeaking. Perhaps he stepped in syrup.

Over all of this I can hear my laptop keys clack and feel the bumps on the F and J keys as I type, and now I can see again.

(Murry Aikins Dining Hall, 2/2/19)