still waters

1.1

1.2: EVALUATION

"The ability to judge the value of material."

The first thing that caught my eye was the sheer brightness.

It wasn't the amount of passersby that occupied the entirety of the room, nor the enormity of the room itself. It wasn't the way the ceiling bent into four slants that ended in a flat, airy skylight far above me, no—it was the pure brilliance of color that resided in every object beyond me.

The flight attendant's shirt to my left that was the color of a ripened apple; the purity of the white-plastered walls that reached to the sky it seemed, gradually fading into the gigantic skylight. Even the black of the microphone that sat at the flight information desk was a color so vivid that I could make out the pores of the windscreen.

I couldn't refrain from halting in my tracks to gaze at the airport terminal that laid beyond me. It was as if I had flipped on the switch of a flashlight while standing in a dark room, for everything glistened with colors more vibrant than I'd ever seen.

When had the color become so intense—so beautiful—and why? I thought back to boarding the plane, but nothing quite as extraordinary in color as this came to mind. Something had to have shifted on the plane ride, but I couldn't pinpoint when or what, for I had nodded off the whole ride here. Had the tunnel to the gate of the airport that I'd just come from been as exuberant?—I couldn't remember.

It had to have been the place itself. The sheer radiance that bounced off of everything in the airport must have been what Dayton was referring to when he said that I would never be able to scrape the scenery from my memory. But how come the boy spoke those words with such ridicule, such contempt? All I saw before me was beauty, and I couldn't imagine anything beneath the surface.

A sign above me that pointed in the direction of the baggage claim caught my attention. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder just as I felt a woman collide with my arm.

"Get out of the walkway, idiot," she spat, without so much as a glance backward.

I dismissed the woman's remark and quickly followed the direction of the sign.

The bag was heavy around my shoulder, for I'd packed both it and my other two suitcases to the brim with more than the necessities. I'd included my laptop, a wireless mouse, a book I'd been reading, a safe amount of extra outfits and shoes, and my own pillow as well as toiletry preferences. I wasn't certain how long the boy would let me stay, but I figured I would have enough time to utilize all of my belongings.

As I made my way, it dawned on me that in only a short amount of time, I would meet Dayton. Truly meet him—the real, physical, tangible Dayton—who had no idea that I had actually taken the initiative to visit his world.

I couldn't pinpoint an exact reason as to why I didn't tell him that I was coming to visit. Perhaps it was the mixed signals he'd given me. Countless times he told me that he wanted me to visit, yet each time he'd evoke the topic, he had this inclination to emphasize that his city "was a mess." I never understood what he meant, so I'd simply nod without questing further. It wasn't a big deal to me; I only cared about who the boy truly was in person.