The Dead Poets

27

My head rests loosely on the upturned palm that lay squished against my cheek.

The waitress, an older woman whom I fail to recognize, pours me another cup of steaming coffee.

I relax immediately, letting the freshly brewed aroma engulf my tired senses.

I glance up at the analog clock, that hangs atop the diner's counter, right next to a flashy sign that reads 'Mel's Diner.'

He's late.

The bells chime, signalling someone's escaped the winter's cold, and entered into the warmth of the diner.

I glance at the red and blue 'open' sign, that swings back and forth against the glass door.

Charlie arrives, with a beautiful girl linked to his arm.

The illogical part of me almost wishes it would be a different girl. But every night, like clockwork, he arrives with the same one clinging closely to his body.

The face always remains hidden, but the long blond locks are a dead giveaway for even my unconscious self.

Her head nestles itself in the crook of his neck, as he guides them to a booth, one arm swung loosely over her body.

I feel as though weights are tied to my feet, as I remain rooted in place.

My arms might as well be chained to the table in front of me, as I lose all motion in my body.

I want to scream, to shout his name, but continuously fail to find the energy.

Then, just as quickly as my unconscious mind burdens me with such a nightmare, it ends.

"Good morning." Charlie spoke, a small smirk etched across his face, as he lie beneath me in my bed.

Morning? I thought incredulously, glancing at the clock that sat atop my nightstand, its dull glowing numbers read 9:00 AM.

I slowly stirred, yawning and stretching my arms out, as I made my way out of bed, wiping the bead of sweat that managed to fall down my forehead, while ritualistically thanking God the dream was just that: a dream.

"No." Charlie protested, snaking his arms around my waist, and swiftly pulling me back down onto the soft mattress.

He nuzzled his face into my neck, peppering soft kisses along my collarbone.

"Five more minutes?" He asks rhetorically, seemingly unfazed by my futile protests.

Suddenly I remembered the class trip with Mr. Keating.

I groan, turning around so I lay flat on my stomach, my head held up in my palms as I stare at him through hooded lids.

Charlie looked so good in the mornings. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cheek held a rosy tint and his lips were visibly more plump.

I fought the urge to ditch the trip all together. But I know it would hurt Mr. Keating to see us missing from attendance.