Spring Rain
She gazed at the pavement, with water dripping down her yellow poncho. She hadn't moved for five minutes, and I was beginning to wonder what was wrong. I wanted to speak to her without disturbing her tranquility. It was to defeat a sadness, whether in her or me, that I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Ryan." Her hands were in the pockets of her poncho, and before she pulled out her right hand she slowly looked up. Her eyes were a soft green and bloodshot, and untouched tears rolled down her light brown cheeks.
"Hi," she said, shaking my hand.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," I said.
"No, it's okay." Her gaze was gentle, and while holding my eyes up to hers I felt a light pleasure permeate my mind. She was more attractive than I had originally thought. A nagging voice suggested that she was too beautiful for me. "Are you a freshman too?"
"A junior," I said. "Why, do I look like a freshman?"
"No, I was just making conversation." She took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.
"I'm sorry you're upset about something," I said.
"Oh, I'm just imitating the weather. Sometimes the skies just need to open up."
"Where are you from?"
"A city in Ohio called Steubenville."
"No wonder. Here strangers don't really talk to each other. I'm a Midwesterner at heart. If I had a choice, I would have grown up in the Midwest."
"Where did you grow up?"
"Here in the city."
"Wow, a real New Yorker. I hardly ever meet anyone who's actually from New York." Her eyes lit up with sincere excitement, but it was fleeting, and sighing, she fell back into her gentle sadness. "You don't have an accent or anything."
"I know, I like to think I speak with the universal accent, the kind you hear on TV. Everyone who gets a certain type of education has it."
"I'm glad southerners aren't educated that way," she said, a look of determination passing across her face. "what we have is a sort of lack of an accent. I wish I had an exquisite accent, it would make me more interesting. When an accent is good it really holds peoples' attention. I bet no one ever interrupted Robert E. Lee. There was a man with authority and an accent."
"He didn't have an accent to other Southerners, though. He just sounded normal to them."
"Kind of like how the city must seem normal to you," she said. "I don't think it could ever be normal to me."
"It's funny, I don't think a person ever quite gets used to the city. It's always just a little bit abrasive, a little bit intense."
"You should move to the Midwest then and get some peace."
"Maybe I will." There was a lull in the conversation, and she dropped her gaze down to the wet pavement. As I stole a glance at her, I realized that she reminded me of a painting I once saw of the Virgin at the presentation in the Temple, when Simeon tells her that a sword will pierce her heart. There was some physical resemblance between them, but what was more striking was the way the two seemed to have the same sad silence. I felt the need to draw close to her, to free her from her sadness. Maybe she had a problem she couldn't discuss with anyone, and it would evaporate the minute she described it.
"I lost my uncle this past year," I said, hoping to initiate a mutual openness, albeit premature.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, we were really close. He and I used to play catch on Saturday mornings. We played in front of the wall of a building, and he would crouch down as a catcher, and I would hurl the ball at him as hard as I could. We had to stop because he said I was going to break his hand."
"How did he die?"
"Cancer. He got chemo and everything, lost his hair, but it didn't work."
"It must be difficult losing someone close like that," she said. The rain had stopped, and the sun was coming out. She took off her poncho and thoughtfully shook it out, then folded it and placed it under her arm. "I can't imagine what that's like." So no one near her had died.
"You've never lost a relative?" I asked.
"A couple of grandparents, but I didn't know them very well. No one very close to me has ever died," she said, "I'm very lucky."
"That's good. Have you gotten your midterms back yet?" I thought I would take another tack.
"Yes, and I did really well!" she said, smiling for a moment. "One of my teachers served coffee during the midterm, and when he got to me he spilled it all over my desk, so I got an extra hour."
"That's Dr. Simon, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Oh look, here comes a bus. It's not the one I want, though."
"This is my bus," I said, disappointed.
"Well it's been lovely talking to you. Maybe I'll see you around," she said.
"Yes, I hope so. I haven't asked you your name."
"Abby." I boarded the bus and glanced at her as it pulled away from the sidewalk.
I saw her around campus, and she maintained her mysterious sadness. It was strange, because it didn't make the people around her sad. They were usually smiling and laughing. She even radiated a certain joy, yet the sadness persisted.
About a month after I met her I went to the campus health center for a sore throat. There she was, sitting in the waiting room. I walked over and sat next to her. "What're you in for?" I asked.
"I'm meeting with the counselor," she said.
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious."
"No, not really." She leaned toward me, put her hand up to my ear, and whispered, "I'm bipolar."
I almost said "of course you're bipolar," but instead I just nodded and said "Oh."
She gazed at the pavement, with water dripping down her yellow poncho. She hadn't moved for five minutes, and I was beginning to wonder what was wrong. I wanted to speak to her without disturbing her tranquility. It was to defeat a sadness, whether in her or me, that I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Ryan." Her hands were in the pockets of her poncho, and before she pulled out her right hand she slowly looked up. Her eyes were a soft green and bloodshot, and untouched tears rolled down her light brown cheeks.
"Hi," she said, shaking my hand.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," I said.
"No, it's okay." Her gaze was gentle, and while holding my eyes up to hers I felt a light pleasure permeate my mind. She was more attractive than I had originally thought. A nagging voice suggested that she was too beautiful for me. "Are you a freshman too?"
"A junior," I said. "Why, do I look like a freshman?"
"No, I was just making conversation." She took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.
"I'm sorry you're upset about something," I said.
"Oh, I'm just imitating the weather. Sometimes the skies just need to open up."
"Where are you from?"
"A city in Ohio called Steubenville."
"No wonder. Here strangers don't really talk to each other. I'm a Midwesterner at heart. If I had a choice, I would have grown up in the Midwest."
"Where did you grow up?"
"Here in the city."
"Wow, a real New Yorker. I hardly ever meet anyone who's actually from New York." Her eyes lit up with sincere excitement, but it was fleeting, and sighing, she fell back into her gentle sadness. "You don't have an accent or anything."
"I know, I like to think I speak with the universal accent, the kind you hear on TV. Everyone who gets a certain type of education has it."
"I'm glad southerners aren't educated that way," she said, a look of determination passing across her face. "what we have is a sort of lack of an accent. I wish I had an exquisite accent, it would make me more interesting. When an accent is good it really holds peoples' attention. I bet no one ever interrupted Robert E. Lee. There was a man with authority and an accent."
"He didn't have an accent to other Southerners, though. He just sounded normal to them."
"Kind of like how the city must seem normal to you," she said. "I don't think it could ever be normal to me."
"It's funny, I don't think a person ever quite gets used to the city. It's always just a little bit abrasive, a little bit intense."
"You should move to the Midwest then and get some peace."
"Maybe I will." There was a lull in the conversation, and she dropped her gaze down to the wet pavement. As I stole a glance at her, I realized that she reminded me of a painting I once saw of the Virgin at the presentation in the Temple, when Simeon tells her that a sword will pierce her heart. There was some physical resemblance between them, but what was more striking was the way the two seemed to have the same sad silence. I felt the need to draw close to her, to free her from her sadness. Maybe she had a problem she couldn't discuss with anyone, and it would evaporate the minute she described it.
"I lost my uncle this past year," I said, hoping to initiate a mutual openness, albeit premature.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, we were really close. He and I used to play catch on Saturday mornings. We played in front of the wall of a building, and he would crouch down as a catcher, and I would hurl the ball at him as hard as I could. We had to stop because he said I was going to break his hand."
"How did he die?"
"Cancer. He got chemo and everything, lost his hair, but it didn't work."
"It must be difficult losing someone close like that," she said. The rain had stopped, and the sun was coming out. She took off her poncho and thoughtfully shook it out, then folded it and placed it under her arm. "I can't imagine what that's like." So no one near her had died.
"You've never lost a relative?" I asked.
"A couple of grandparents, but I didn't know them very well. No one very close to me has ever died," she said, "I'm very lucky."
"That's good. Have you gotten your midterms back yet?" I thought I would take another tack.
"Yes, and I did really well!" she said, smiling for a moment. "One of my teachers served coffee during the midterm, and when he got to me he spilled it all over my desk, so I got an extra hour."
"That's Dr. Simon, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Oh look, here comes a bus. It's not the one I want, though."
"This is my bus," I said, disappointed.
"Well it's been lovely talking to you. Maybe I'll see you around," she said.
"Yes, I hope so. I haven't asked you your name."
"Abby." I boarded the bus and glanced at her as it pulled away from the sidewalk.
I saw her around campus, and she maintained her mysterious sadness. It was strange, because it didn't make the people around her sad. They were usually smiling and laughing. She even radiated a certain joy, yet the sadness persisted.
About a month after I met her I went to the campus health center for a sore throat. There she was, sitting in the waiting room. I walked over and sat next to her. "What're you in for?" I asked.
"I'm meeting with the counselor," she said.
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious."
"No, not really." She leaned toward me, put her hand up to my ear, and whispered, "I'm bipolar."
I almost said "of course you're bipolar," but instead I just nodded and said "Oh."
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