It’s not as if the room was quiet, but the air that swept around his face seemed to lap in whispers of vanilla bean and All Spice around his chin, igniting my nostrils in a familiar game of ‘I spy with my little eye, memories beginning with’… Nostalgia rang sweet with the thought of my father holed up in his study pouring over paper, as the musky scent of my mystery man drifted lightly up the rows of wooden pews. I couldn’t help but inhale deeply, blissfully unaware of the smile that swept coyly across my face. My attention wavered from the bodies on either side of me; they were losing and I was falling.
It’s not as if the room was quiet, but the brass in his voice echoed wistfully through the din like the miniature symbol of the dancing-monkey-wind-up toy of my childhood. It hit the back of my throat sharply like a peppermint lozenge but was quickly asuaged by the velvet giggle of the blonde haired girl in white to his left. He sounded nothing like my father, but then again, it’s not as if the room was quiet.
He was still for what seemed like too long and my ears filled up once more with the incessant natter of 8 o clock Monday morning. When he finally spoke again, the pitch of his voice had increased severely in what could have been an impression of the chesty redhead in the row in front of him but was most likely just a sneeze. As his head flew back in a gust of auburn mist and teeth, I resigned myself to the former; I didn’t like his laugh.
Willing him to turn around and notice me listening, I caught myself leaning gently over the desk. He turned sharply at the calling of his name from somewhere in the lofty heights of NSLT; David I think it was. The lust in my eyes was greeted abruptly by the poster child for abstinence; I grunted, shocked, but I don’t think he heard me…it’s not as if the room was quiet.
- Kenny Jules Morifi-Winslow
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