no, no

No, no. My new pen, unfamiliar, clunky, slides around on my callous. I found an old notebook in my office for tonight’s class. No, no.

I miss Vancouver. I miss the endless walks, arms slung about waists, giggling into the humid nighttime. I miss mornings without an alarm clock and I miss the gigantic bathtub in Victoria and I miss aggressively touring botanical gardens and I miss not knowing where I was and not caring and I miss food, all the food, every bite.

No, no. The first class I’m supposed to take, the first one that’s actually second, is now going to be third, or fourth, or I don’t know when. I’m bumped out and my alternatives are Christian and Muslim Faith, Political Philosophy of Statesmanship, or Women’s Struggle for Civil Equality. No, no.

I’m dithering. Bright young things pop tanned arms through my open door, heyhowwasyoursummer breathlessly uttered, smiles and smiles. I keep saying yes, yes; I keep the chatter alight, shining back into the sun.

I miss that pen shop in Vancouver, the one from which I bought this new, awkward pen during our last afternoon. I miss how it seemed like a good idea, and I miss how you did too. No, no.

The time between now and what-comes-next is dwindling. I don’t remember if I’m really any good at this, or if I just remember the smell of new books and the feel of pen on paper, quickly, keeping up with a solid voice.

Or yes; or yes. Today, for now, it must be yes.

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

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