Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #18

Perfect days are rare enough, even in the good times. When's the last time you had one? Not where everything seemed perfect but where it actually was? I don't know how to explain them, really, because when you do, the perfection is drained out of them. They're like butterflies pinned on cork-board, beautiful when you tilt them in the light, but it's a clinical, scientific sort of beauty. Still, better that glint of iridescent wings (oh, how the light plays off them!) than diagrams on a chart, numbers quantifying those specimens.

(Oh, the memory of perfection! The sunlight playing in her hair! It lacks life, but there you go with your examination.)

The cool grass scratches the back of your legs as you stare at the flat blue of the sky. The longer you stare, the farther away it seems to be. It doesn't feel like fall, though you're sure the calendar says otherwise. There is no bite in the air, and the sun is soft on your cheek.

"M., M., M." Clair's sing-song voice cuts through your thoughts. If you were having any thoughts.

You're on the mall, so you weren't so much thinking as taking everything in. The crisp feel of almost-fall. The bright sunshine. Students milling around, chatting and laughing (and bustling off to class.)

And you were thinking about the mall itself. You've always liked that it's called the mall instead of 'the quad' or something. (It reminds you of going on that trip in eighth grade with your family to Washington D.C. You were strolling along this stretch of grass when your dad pointed out that you were on the National Mall. Of course, this baffled you for a second. Weren't malls filled with shops and gleaming storefronts?)

So you guess that's what you were thinking before Clair chanted your name.

Clair is next to you, pressed close enough that you can feel when she breathes. Inhale. Exhale. You match yours to hers. You feel like one person. Together.

She rolls onto her side to study you, chin propped on her hand.

"What are you thinking about?"

You consider. No one really asks that question. It seems they either don't actually care or just expect you to say what you think if it's important. (What do thoughts matter if they aren't spoken?)

"The sky. Questions."

She laughs. "Is that all?"

You glance up at her, your eyebrow quirked.

Her eyes dance, matching her freckles. The sky hangs around her, and the light hits her hair in such a way that you imagine she's the sun.

"Just... I don't know. Most people—" she cuts off, running a hand through her hair. She smiles again, but her eyes seem lost, vacant. "Never mind."

Next to her is a white, paper sack, and Clair busies herself with it. It's all that's left of your picnic lunch, meaning (of course) a bag of greasy fries. Clair grabs a handful, sifting through them, sorting between them based on some undefined criteria. Satisfied with one, she shoves it in your mouth and laughs when you recoil.

"That was a present!"

"Sorry. Give me another one."

She tosses you the bag, and you fish out the crunchiest fries.

Clair crinkles her nose. "Gross. I didn't think anyone liked those ones. Maybe we can't be friends anymore."

You smile when she says that. Friends. The word sounds better than good when applied to Clair.

"You're supposed to be horrified by me revoking my friendship, you know."

Your grin widens before you drop it. "Oh, Clair, please accept my humblest apologies. Crunchy fries are so much worse than their soggy, uh, counterparts. Please accept this soggy fry as a token of my remorse." You shove the soggy (cold, greasy) fry towards her face, and she giggles.

"Mmmm... laying it on a bit thick, M." Her pixie smile lights up her face. "But I accept."

You crunch fries in silence. (Silence between you two. Birds and chatter and munching fries. Hardly silent, but the word is right. Like peace, but more right, even if the meaning doesn't fit quite right. It's funny how these things go.)

"Skip class with me."

"Skip class?" you echo, not sure you heard correctly.

"Why not? It's a great day, and I don't want to be stuck inside."

The grass sticks to your arms and legs. Your eyes play tricks on you as you stare at the slate of sky. Flat blue, there's nothing for your eyes to latch onto; for a moment, the sky leans in alarmingly close and, just as quickly, pinwheels away. In, out. In, out. Focusing, unfocusing.

"Sure."

"Sure? Your enthusiasm is overwhelming."

"Sure." You smile, and she punches you on the shoulder.

Sure. A perfect day.