Morning at Caribou

I hear snippets of talk, but what I really want is a long, juicy stretch of something into which I can sink my nosy teeth. The men next to me are discussing mileage and taxes, and next to them, one plain woman tells an official-looking other something about orders of protection. She shares both her home and mobile phone numbers loudly, so that I may call her should I decide. High-pitched musings of little boys across the room blend with their mothers’ laughter.

I wish I had a companion this morning, though I am here on formal business: studying for my impossible class, the one that will be the downfall of my pristine GPA and prove to me that after three years of school, I am allowed to screw up and it won’t ruin my life.

The eyes of a short-haired man on the phone meet mine, and I'm struck with how beautiful they are – an uncommon delight. Spicy tea warms my fingers, my toes. February already...spring looms and I am already feeling warmer in the 30 outside degrees in just my sweater than I did in November’s 40s wrapped in down. I'd prefer not to have to acclimate, but rather to move to Phoenix where my Caribou visits could consist of something icy year-round.

A phone call and plans for midday chop suey, a final look at my textbook, my heart pounding out the frustration of not being able to make heads or tails of the issues before me. I throw my book into my bag and make half-hearted plans for a ritual textbook-burning after March’s end of quarter. The man to my left is typing on his laptop and rarely breaks stride – when I peek over at his screen I see that he's ordering some kind of organic food. I'm not meddling, no - you shouldn't expect that your doings in public will be private!

I look around and wonder what the secrets are. Who here who is laughing does so with earnestness? Someone once told me that people are like icebergs – 20% viewable above the surface, the other 80% hiding beneath. The man with the striking eyes might have tortured his cat this morning and the laughing moms may be dying inside. The woman with the restraining order might dance tonight in her living room, sweating and laughing, taking a break to eat chocolate ice cream and brush her long, brown hair into opulence.