Contents
Esprit Home
Esprit Fall 2005 Home
Cover Photo
Awards
Contributors
Acknowledgements
Submission Information
9/11
Anna Perenna
Untitled I
Autumn
Companion Plantings
Insomnia
Jenna's Wish
My Resubmission
Polo Lifestyle
El Murro
Pupil
Solemn Night
The Poem
We Are the Reflection
Sex Smells
Who is Left?
Bundle of Oats
De manera que
San Miniato al Monte
Spin the Bottle
Front Cover:
Eat Strawberries
Inside Front Cover:
Gu Shi, "Xin Shi": No Words
Inside Back Cover:
Untitled
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| | Autumn
Chris Longo
Beneath the faded gray September sky a horde of
pigeons peppers the sidewalk along the edge of campus. The
ravenous, clamoring cluster of dreary-colored feathers bobs
along aimlessly, each creature pecking downward at the clawed
feet of another
in search of something to eat. On a wooden
bench across the street I close my novel and then set fire to a
cigarette while observing the scene on the sidewalk with
probing, if limited, interest. Meanwhile several female
freshmen amble around the corner of a nearby building—bare,
tan, slender stomachs and
limbs, a squeaky amalgam of
high-pitched, hysterical laughter and playful prattling. The
birds scatter into the air. I exhale a thin stream of smoke,
resume reading.
After my cigarette I nestle the paperback securely
within my purse and walk to a quaint café-bookstore
a few
blocks away. Upon arrival I immediately notice Adam
Carroway sitting on a couch by the coffee bar; he reads
through a pair of ostentatious aviator sunglasses and chews
thoughtfully on his lower lip. I order a small black coffee to go
and then stroll in his direction. He notices me en route, and
the corners of his lips curl upward carefully.
He say, "Hi stranger."
"Hi, Adam." I catch my reflection in his glasses;
something inside me tenses up; the words "I thought it was you
when I first came in!" tumble from my lips with a
burst of
nervous laughter. I swallow. "But I couldn't tell because of the
aviators."
"Right." His smile fades. "So how's it going?"
"Good." I run my tongue along the roof of my
mouth, shift my gaze to the
wall behind him. "Really well."
I ask him about things with Karen—"Honestly? She's
fucking amazing."—and am not happy to hear it but curl the
corners of my lips upward carefully anyway. (Fucking amazing.
He means amazing at fucking. Or as amazing at fucking as an
eighteen-year-old can possibly be.)
"Since when do you smoke?"
"What?" I stare at him blankly.
"He points to the pack of Camel Lights sticking out
the top of my purse.
"Um, since the beginning of the summer."
"Interesting."
"Why?"
He shrugs.
"What's so interesting about my smoking?"
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."
"Oh."
"I mean, you used to hate that I smoked."
"That's because you'd always light up as soon as—"
"—I remember."
"Sorry." Sigh.
"It's fine, Emily. I don't care."
We talk for a few more minutes. Later I try to read in
bed but find myself thinking about Adam and Karen and why
he wears sunglasses indoors and why he mentioned my
smoking and how careful our smiles have become.
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