Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #32

Clair's room is sort of beautiful that night. She's put up little lights that would get her in trouble if a CA saw them, and the ceiling light is off and those little lights twinkle, and it sort of reminds you of star-gazing. (It's not really like your camping trip, with the ceiling cracked and peeling paint, but the same intimacy nestles between you.)

And besides that, you and Clair have had too much to drink.

(There was a brief moment of feigned responsibility. "It's only Tuesday," you said.

Clair shrugged. "And tomorrow's only Wednesday.)

So you've had too much to drink. In all honesty, it's a little surprising; you'd never thought coffee liqueur would be your undoing. (Clair'd mixed it with milk stolen from the dining hall. "You're supposed to mix Kalhúa with cream, but I'm cheap.")

Now, a few too many glasses (chipped mugs) of it, and you're both distracted from your distraction. (Later, the TV will go fuzzy— not from poor quality, no. Fuzzy from mis-memory.)

You both sit cross-legged on Clair's futon, blankets draped over your head and shoulders, leaning conspiratorially close.

"My mom and dad used to drink this every Christmas Eve when they were wrapping presents. Some years Santa had pretty bad handwriting." Her lips slant into a half-smile, a dusting of freckles jumping.

You snort and clap your hands over your mouth to keep more giggles from escaping. "I thought drinking and—" your face contorts as you grapple for the right word "—sleighing was against the law...?"

Clair tips her head back, giggling. "The elves had an intervention before he got a 'flying under the influence." Her eyes glitter. "An FUI."

Something about that sends you both into fits of giggles.

(The night blurs. Sweet liqueur and laughter. Your eye glazed with Clair's fairy lights. The soft hum of the TV and the radiator and whispers.

After a time, you curl together, feet twined (hers unnaturally cold and you recoil when they touch yours. She can't stop laughing and pokes her toes in your ribs

and then

you sleep. Long and deep and dreamless.)

When your alarm goes off the next morning, you hit snooze. Wishful thinking, really. The third time it rings, Clair reaches over you, bleary-eyed, and swipes it off.

"Now or never," she mumbles, rolling over.

You open one eye, squinting at the time. Never, it seems. You wrench the blanket back over your head and crash, letting that deep, dreamless sleep drag you down.

A few hours later, you both wake. Clair rolls off the futon, and sifts through piles of clothes on the floor. (Sweatpants, sweatshirt, and off-kilter ponytails are what you both end up with. College does not draw the same lines as high school. You are grateful.)

It's somewhere between mid-morning and late afternoon when you make it to Centen's dining hall. No one seems to be there, and that makes you unnaturally happy. The world has fallen away from the two of you.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing." Clair takes a swig of coffee, beaming at you over her mug.

"Nothing?"

"That's right."

Neither of you make it to class that day.