The boy sitting beside me seems tortured by the notebook in front of him. He keeps toying with his pencil, setting it determinedly to the paper, and then lifting it again, sniffing, leaning back, and looking around. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for someone to come in and tell him what he needs to write down. He’s quiet, barely breathing when he finally sets to writing, but then suddenly he’d be overcome with a bout of thoughts, and he’d turn his pencil around and erase madly, and then the process begins all over again. He sharpens the pencil and watches the lead become pointed, and then tests it gently with his finger. With his right hand (for he’s lefthanded), he picks up the iced coffee patiently melting beside him and sips it. At first glance, he looks like just a student, in a colorful printed tank top and basketball shorts; but with a tool in hand and paper confronting him, he looks like a real writer--confused, unhappy, dissatisfied with every word that comes out.
Now he’s just staring at the page, reading and frowning and tapping his fingers of the table before he finally grows despondent. He looks as if he’s ready to give up. Then with a fervor, he picks up the pencil again and starts scratching at the notebook as if he’s on fire.
Now he’s put down the pencil and is sighing deeply into his hands, elbows on the table. His eyes plead with the page, but it yields nothing and he puts his face in his hands again. He shuts his eyes for a few seconds. He rubs the sides of his face, and his leg begins bouncing up and down. He sits there, coffee untouched, pencil in hand again, and contemplates.
Sitting further along the table is another young college student. She looks like a statue, sitting with her back straight and elbows bent at ninety-degree angles, but her fingers are flying across the keys as her gaze fixates on her laptop. She also seems wholly absorbed in her work, but unlike the boy she is unwavering and immensely focused. She’s not waiting for anyone or anything. Her fingers don’t hesitate.
The boy sneaks a glance over in one of his deep sighs, and he instantly becomes jealous of her.
She doesn’t notice, of course. The laptop has all her attention. Her lips part slightly as she leans forward a centimeter, like a vine crawling toward sunlight, and her eyes are unblinking. When her phone chimes, she doesn’t even notice. So absorbed is she that nothing can disturb her concentration.
The boy rests his forehead on his hand. He glares at the notebook. Leaning down, he opens the backpack by his chair and pulls out a laptop, and almost reluctantly he opens it. He taps at the keys a bit, and leans back, his face carved in frustration.
