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Disenchanted (Part Three)

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Feb. 7th, 2006 | 08:21 pm
mood: busy
music: Sister Golden Hair Suprise--America
posted by: bad_mushroom in les_cannettes



The next day dawned bright and gray, with a twinge of spring in the air. Lydda wandered downstairs, still half-asleep, and found Heather sitting in the kitchen reading Wuthering Heights while the kettle fizzed insistantly. She took the cover off and poured two mugs of hot water.

Heather glanced up as Lydda added a teabag of peppermint to the second mug. Shortly, her glance fell on the other cup, which she fixed up with instant coffee as Lydda settled at the table.

“How’s the book?” Lydda asked after a bit, sipping her tea. It wasn’t quite strong enough yet, and needed more sugar.

Heather shrugged noncommitally. “Pretty good,” she said through a bite of toast, “Heathcliffe’s a bit of an asshole.”

Lydda smiled a little and nodded into the steam from her tea, inhaling it gratefully. The mint was so soothing, after a the restless sleep she had gotten last night...the restless sleep...

“Had a dream,” she said without warning. “Strange dream...there was a burglar...”

Her roomate looked up, slightly alarmed. “In the dream, you mean?”

“Oh, er, yes, of course,” said Lydda, a trifle uncertainly.

“Hm.”

“I got rid of the burglar, in the end,” Lydda continued. Heather was silent.

Ten minutes later they were both fully awake, and also a bit late for their first class. This was nineteenth-century literature, appropriately, and was the only class they had together. At half-past nine they bustled out of the front door, down the steps and into Lydda’s little old Subaru.

It wasn’t a very large class, for their University. Only about twenty students, all undergrad, mostly English majors, like Lydda. Heather, on the other hand, was in Liberal Arts, but took the course largely because she was interested in it. The Brontë sisters in particular were her passion. Fortunately, that was what they were focusing on at the moment.

The proffessor had nearly started her lecture on the importance of bloodlines in Wuthering Heights when they arrived, wet and out of breath. It had started to drizzle on their way from the car to the classroom, and now there were slight rumblings of thunder in the distance. Overall it seemed to Lydda perfect weather to be studying Emily Brontë’s masterpiece in, though she felt that running into Heathcliffe and Catherine in Boston was highly unlikely. Besides, she preffered Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. She could relate to Jane.

Lydda found herself immensely distracted by the weather throughout the duration of the class. Every few moments she would catch herself staring out the window into the rain, watching the weak little city trees whipped around in an equally weak wind. She supposed the storm made her think of home.

Home. Where everything was so much greener and wetter--but she had chosen to come here, to the city. Anyways, it was a better city than most. More brown than gray, and more like something that occured naturally than any other city she had ever seen in the United States. Where New York City was planned with the industrious hands of city planners, Boston just...evolved.

But still, it was nothing like home.

Outside there was a tall, pale man leaning against one of those city trees; he was almost as tall as it was. He wore a long khaki coat, cream-colored pants, and a deep blue scarf around his neck. A shoulder-length halo of silvery blonde hair hung around his face, which was downcast, so she couldn’t make out his features. Against all the gray-brown of the city he looked nearly luminous.

He turned his face up the the rain for a moment, closed his eyes and then opened them to the sky.

They were silver. Despite the fact that she shouldn’t have been able to see his eyes at that distance...they were clearly silver.

No way, she thought, the dream rushing back to her. No bloody way in hell. He’s--!

A sharp jab in the ribs caused her to whirl instinctively around. Heather was there, pushing glossy black hair out of her face impatiently. “Class is over, airhead,” she was saying, affection behind the insult.

“Oh,” said Lydda, fumbling blindly for her car keys. “Right.”

When she looked for the man again, coming out of the building into the cold rain, he wasn’t anywhere she could find him.




Excuse the Boston-love rantishness. Critique goes here.

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