Illustration by Jeannine Phan
That narrow walkway from Quad to the Power Plant might as well have been the Champs Élysées. We practically danced past CAB like two characters in a French new wave film. Holding hands and jumping in fresh puddles and twirling! God, I remember literally twirling with you. Do you remember that? We were just kids, partners playing the game of adulthood as best we could. You would call me the mornings of exams or mid-terms, just in case my alarm didn’t go off. I would keep dry gym socks in my backpack because I knew of your penchant for puddles. Whenever it rains in late April I think about those two people. In that place in my mind my hair is damp and flat and you are holding a cold glass of beer with both hands. You shiver, poking your frigid feet at my knees under the table as I toss the spare socks to you with a knowing smirk. If friendship were just cold beers and warm socks, we would have everything we ever needed.
This piece of flash fiction was inspired by Sheila Graham, ’98 BA, who fondly recalls the pure joy of post-exam puddle jumping. Submit your own memory at firstname.lastname@example.org.