SandScript 2023 [Digital Exclusive]

your friends have thinned out, and you feel like you’re on the verge of remembering the quote
but then it’s gone.
There was a time when you would talk endlessly into the night. In the corner of her dorm
hallway, she and you sit on a hard, stained couch. The only light comes from the streetlamps
outside below the window. In this low light, you can only make her out and nothing else.
You hold her hand, as you lean in closer. You hide your nervousness about your sweaty palm
by brushing a couple of hair strands out of her face. You could smell her shampoo orange
blossom and vanilla. You gaze into her eyes, and she gazes back. By your feet are empty
bottles of Smirnoff Ice that a friend of hers has bought. There are still some unopened. She
speaks faster as she tells you about how she was part of the Occupy protest a few months
back. The people she met, the changes she believes they accomplish, the reveling in rebellion
and you start to wish you were there too. You can imagine all the exciting things she has done,
and all the exciting things she’ll do. As she talks about how one of the reasons for the Great
Recession was because of the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act, you scoot closer. You can feel
her thumb petting your hand.
There is shouting coming from the room closest to you. The door opens halfway before not
closing all the way. You can almost make out what is being said, so you crane your neck as
if by some physiological phenomeno your hearing improves tenfold. It seems to be infidelity
between a couple. Unfortunately, it was coming off as more depressing than tantalizing. Less
like Werner Herzog and more like your younger cousin’s three-act play. The fighting stops with
one of them storming into the hall and stomping away from you. You quickly try to think of
something to bring back the mood. It takes you a moment because you have already told her
your two-bit analysis of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s works last week. You also spoke of the time in the
spirit of Hunter S. Thompson you typed out The Great Gatsby on an antique typewriter you’d
found at Goodwill. Then it hits you: poetry. You wax poetic about “The Hollow Men.” After
another few Smirnoff, you begin to recite Robert Frost or maybe it’s Hannah Montana? At that
point, neither she nor you care about what is being said. You kiss. It is the first kiss. You don’t
hear another door opening, but you do hear a Skrillex song.
It saddens you as you no longer discuss Axios stories, but you’re old now. The closest thing
to actual news that you know of is the latest J.K. Rowling tweet—at least now it’s fine to tell
people you’ve never read her books instead of saying you’re a Ravenclaw. The time of naïve,
optimistic activism long since passed you by leaving only memories of telling people you
support Standing Rock. But now with the approach of thirty, a sense of despair and inevitable
death encompasses you. It grows as you glance toward her.
Finishing the last of your coffee, you stand and place your mug in the sink. You walk, stopping
at your no longer-used study with its piles of unread books, unfinished manuscripts, and
poems stashed away in the bottom desk drawer. You watch floating dust slowly fall onto caked
layers. When was the last time you even thought about writing? The inspirational poster on the
wall now feels like mockery. You close the study’s door.
You head to the master bathroom. In the shower, the quote fails to form as you lather your hair
with shampoo. During conditioning, you belt out old croon songs about heartache. You wipe
the condensation off the mirror leaving smudges and trails of droplets, but through it all there
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