Like Real People Do [🗸]

01. freshmen

The freshmen are beasts. They clink plastic cups, let their laughs echo into the sky. 

All that can be seen are eighteen-year-olds who are drunk off liberation. No one controls them. Fuck that. They're in control.  You've got people pressed against each other with their black dresses acting as as a second layer of skin, or their oversized jeans rolled up so as to not drag against the dark stalks of grass.

Dragons form on my sketchbook. I look up. A large red dragon with dove-white teeth would look absolutely dangerous on that girl's arm, on that boy's thigh, on that person's neck. 

We, the freshmen, are outside of a hotel not too far away from the college. The big city is dangerous for those of us who come from small towns. My small town has nothing on the metropolis. 

I shade the legs of the dragon, the spikes, the sword-like teeth. My back is pressed against a plastic chair, ass sat on the ground, sketchbook on my lap, ink pen held in my hand. I work best when the world is burning.

My soda is frigid from where it sits on the grass next to me. My sketches are coming to life in the midst of this chaos. Mythical creatures take up the page. This is their world now.

"Wow."

I look up. 

The boy in front of me is a solid 5'8'' from what I can tell. His hair is all dark spikes and strands that are messy and tousled. You could slip your hands through it and it wouldn't make it any better. 

He has broad shoulders. I suppose most would use the word stocky to describe him. Maybe that's the word. I'm not too sure. He's wearing Vans, a silver necklace, a camera slung around his neck. 

I find myself grinning. My hair falls over my face. I don't push it away. "You like it?"

"Yeah!" he says. He grins too. I like his grin. It's not dragon-like, it's boyish. He tilts his head back a bit as he grins, like he's about to laugh but manages to contain it. He shifts from foot to foot.

I think he's one of the first people I've talked to here. My roommate is a zero-fucks-given character who doesn't say too much. I don't mind it, but being miles away from home and situated as a freshman someplace faraway makes it hell to talk to people, make the first move.

This boy is talking to me. 

"You take photos?" I say, motioning toward his camera. He smiles, white teeth bright against the darkness falling over us. 

"Yeah," he says, "yeah," he repeats like I didn't hear him the first time, almost as though he's trying to confirm the fact to himself. His eyes are dark, swirly. Those eyes are on my notebook again. 

"Can I see?" he asks. I meet his eyes, shift a bit. He settles down onto the ground where I've left space for him. He's hesitant, meets my eyes, asks if he can take a look at my sketches. My notebook is dove white, Ideas written out in calligraphy.