It’s endearing how college kids abbreviate everything.
“How’s that prof?”
“Meet you in the caf.”
I lived on “Lup 7” in college. There were 16 of us crammed like sardines in cinderblock cans at the end of the hall. Two to a room.
One Thursday, I left Tin Roof early. I had an early 10am class the next day! I got back to our floor, microwaved some Bagel Bites, put headphones on, and climbed into my lofted bed.
As I closed my eyes, I heard laughter coming from down the hall. The noise got louder, then louder, and then “click.” The door opened. My roommate had brought somebody home.
I tried not to be annoyed. My monitor’s glow usually keeps him up, I thought. Karma.
As I pretended to be passed out, I imagined being an old man, waking up one day in a big house, a big house with vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass, sitting on a Restoration Hardware couch looking out at snow-covered pine trees, sipping espresso all alone, wishing I was back here, right now, surrounded by friends, dark and dirty dorm room be damned.
Then I fell asleep.
I was in Nashville at a friend’s house, eating shrimp, drinking Bud Light. The election was called not long after we finished