Food and a Show ((open))

[Nicolas Damion Holmes]

November 16th – 12:00 Noon

“I know you, I’ve walked with you once, upon, a dreaaaaaaam. I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleaammm…”

Nicolas paused, taking note of the sudden silence.

“… Yes, I know it’s true-”

“Nope.” He muttered to himself, going back to his writing. “Must’ve just forgotten the words.” He was able to see a figure from the corner of his eye out the cafeteria window, wandering and twirling elegantly across the snowy lawn and swaying in time with the song, but he tried ignoring it. He had learned and accepted many times before that he couldn’t just turn to her and ask for her to stop. Besides, she had so far been warm and mild-mannered, her hostile nature not having shown up for over a week. Why the hell would he want to stop her joyful streak and go aggravate her? His best bet would be if she tired and decided to disappear on her own.

Nicolas had situated himself at the back of the cafeteria, close to the windows. He enjoyed coming to eat twenty minutes before the serving hours ended every day, and he would attend every single meal alone. Sometimes his sisters would join him, but only on the weekends when none of them had classes and when their schedules wouldn’t conflict with each other. There was no way he would come to eat at any other time other than the ones he had set for himself, and not even his sisters would be able to change his mind.

He put his pen down and blindly felt for his bowl of soup while he looked over what he wrote in his journal. Like always, he had barely touched his lunch before he became focused on his writing. As organized as he was, he was horrible with multitasking, only able to manage one job at a time and completely ignoring his other priorities until he took a break or finished. He tried a spoonful of his soup and wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction. His food had turned cold. Again.

“But if I know you, I know what you’ll do…” she trailed off. “I… I know what you’ll do…” then with a quiet, trembling intake of breath, she started to weep. “I’m so tired.” she whimpered. “I… I’m so very, very tired.”

Nick closed his eyes, putting his spoon down and grabbing the bridge of his nose as he exhaled a low, worn out sigh. He hated when he would hear her cry, to hear her in so much pain and despair and to know there was absolutely nothing he could do to help, no matter how much she pleaded for the suffering to go away. His free hand rested on top of his open journal, his index finger starting to tap, tap, tap against the page to relieve his uneasiness.

“I don’t want to be tired… why can’t I be happy?... why… why can't... what’s wrong with me?......” It fell quiet once more. Nick turned his head towards the window and opened his eyes, looking through the glass. The figure was gone. He turned back normally into his seat, unsure what to feel. “NICK!!” He heard her shriek into his ear. He turned sharply back to look over his shoulder, accidently swinging his arm across the table and knocking over his bowl of soup.

“Oh, shit,” he swore when he faced the table again. He quickly lifted his journal away from the spill, one of its corners already soiled from the broth. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He heard a faint snicker as he reached for a handful of napkins.

Great. He thought. She must've returned to her bad mood.