05-02-2018, 06:10 PM
It was during a gray September in his junior year that the scent of apples outside the physics auditorium attracted Dexter’s attention.
There were several communal gardens below the auditorium, and that day a girl was weeding in one of them. From forty feet away, she seemed unremarkable. On a normal day, he would never take a detour between classes. Dexter, like electrical current, was an eager proponent of the path of least resistance. Fermat’s principle held a special place in his heart.
The railing was cold beneath his fingers as he leaned over and asked what she was doing. When she turned around she was like no one he had ever seen before. Her skin was a dirty white that reminded him of H.G. Wells’ Morlocks. Her eyes were the soil she was tilling.
“Weeding,” she said. Her smile was brighter than he expected.
Dexter descended a few steps. “What plants are you growing?”
She laughed. “Chamomile. Parsley. Some other stuff. You want to help?”
Dexter told her he was just passing by on his way from the physics auditorium. Seconds ticked by, and when he made no move to diverge his path from her own she laughed again.
She went over the plants with him. Chamomile was the one that smelled like apples. Parsley, the frilly one, meant festivity. As she told him these things, she dug into the earth with a prying tool, unearthing weeds so their pale, white roots showed. By the time she finished, Dexter was looking forward to her smile. He asked her why the plants meant these things, and she said that was just the way it was.
She introduced herself as Harmony from Connecticut. A junior. A liberal arts major, studying drama.
He introduced himself as Dexter.
There were several communal gardens below the auditorium, and that day a girl was weeding in one of them. From forty feet away, she seemed unremarkable. On a normal day, he would never take a detour between classes. Dexter, like electrical current, was an eager proponent of the path of least resistance. Fermat’s principle held a special place in his heart.
The railing was cold beneath his fingers as he leaned over and asked what she was doing. When she turned around she was like no one he had ever seen before. Her skin was a dirty white that reminded him of H.G. Wells’ Morlocks. Her eyes were the soil she was tilling.
“Weeding,” she said. Her smile was brighter than he expected.
Dexter descended a few steps. “What plants are you growing?”
She laughed. “Chamomile. Parsley. Some other stuff. You want to help?”
Dexter told her he was just passing by on his way from the physics auditorium. Seconds ticked by, and when he made no move to diverge his path from her own she laughed again.
She went over the plants with him. Chamomile was the one that smelled like apples. Parsley, the frilly one, meant festivity. As she told him these things, she dug into the earth with a prying tool, unearthing weeds so their pale, white roots showed. By the time she finished, Dexter was looking forward to her smile. He asked her why the plants meant these things, and she said that was just the way it was.
She introduced herself as Harmony from Connecticut. A junior. A liberal arts major, studying drama.
He introduced himself as Dexter.