Juliet sits alone in her cramped room, reading the dystopian 1984 in her crook wooden chair, feet propped on the windowsill, brows tensed. A warm breeze graces her cheek and she looks up, remembering it’s still light out and watches the clouds dissipate and transform. The taste of the breeze lingers in her lungs, evoking tones of freshly cut grass, woody palms and that tinge of exhaust that floats in from the main road.
A boy with his head hung low walks past the pathway behind her house. He’s dressed in gray and appears to be hauling a nap sack of bricks. Of course, she thinks, that’s very much in season right now. She looks over her shoulder to validate and catches a glimpse of her own leaning tower of textbooks and a nest of a loose leaf papers strewn across the room. Nope. It’s definitely not the holidays. She imagines the mid semester demons crewing their ugly necks around the weekend corner stone and cringes disdainfully. With a deep breath, she wipes her mind clean and returns to her novel, careless as she was 5 minutes ago; seemingly so, at least.
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