Seraphima
Decibels and whispers
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The college, like the city, was falling asleep. Autumn rain pounded the tin windowsills, trickled down the glass in dirty streams, and blurred the sparse lights of the streetlamps in the courtyard. In room thirty-four, only one row of lamps was lit, the one by the window. The rest of the room was bathed in semi-darkness. reclined in the last desk, his earphone pushed back on his head, either dozing or pretending to. The philosophy professor had waved his hand at the empty seats for about ten minutes now and was monotonously reading something from his manual, not looking at the audience. The third period was drawing to a close, and everyone who remained was checking their watches.
Seraphima sat across the row from him, closer to the aisle, her back straight as if she were tied to the back of the chair. Her notes lay open in front of her, covered in neat, neat handwriting, but she hadn't written anything in a long time. Her attention was wandering. Something was distracting her. Not the rain, not the stuffiness of the classroom, not the dim light of the lamps. Something else. A presence.
She didn't look in his direction, but she knew he was there. She knew by the sound of his breathing, by the subtle scent of tobacco that had permeated his jacket and was now spreading throughout the classroom, mingling with the dampness. It felt wrong to be so acutely aware of someone's presence. It was disruptive. Her world was structured differently: lecture, notes, home, a report to her mother. There was no place for someone like him. Loud, prickly, unpredictable.
The teacher closed the manual and called a break. Seraphima shuddered, emerging from her thoughts, and quickly looked down at her notebook, though she hadn't read a single line. Now she'll count to ten, gather her things, and leave. As always. No one will speak to her, and she won't speak to anyone. The route home has been perfected for years. But something about this particular autumn day didn't go according
Seraphima sat across the row from him, closer to the aisle, her back straight as if she were tied to the back of the chair. Her notes lay open in front of her, covered in neat, neat handwriting, but she hadn't written anything in a long time. Her attention was wandering. Something was distracting her. Not the rain, not the stuffiness of the classroom, not the dim light of the lamps. Something else. A presence.
She didn't look in his direction, but she knew he was there. She knew by the sound of his breathing, by the subtle scent of tobacco that had permeated his jacket and was now spreading throughout the classroom, mingling with the dampness. It felt wrong to be so acutely aware of someone's presence. It was disruptive. Her world was structured differently: lecture, notes, home, a report to her mother. There was no place for someone like him. Loud, prickly, unpredictable.
The teacher closed the manual and called a break. Seraphima shuddered, emerging from her thoughts, and quickly looked down at her notebook, though she hadn't read a single line. Now she'll count to ten, gather her things, and leave. As always. No one will speak to her, and she won't speak to anyone. The route home has been perfected for years. But something about this particular autumn day didn't go according