A photographer struts through the dappled shadow of the wild and unclipped trees, his tripod thrown jauntily over his shoulder. He is trailed by a petite woman struggling to carry the large circular light reflector that he will use to fix his shots and a tall, young, dark-skinned girl. She looks to be no older than seventeen, and her slumped shoulders seem nervous. She giggles nervously as the photographer sets up his camera equipment, her left arm swinging up to grasp her right elbow, shielding her from his intrusive eyes. He gestures limply for her to scoot to one side, and she hurriedly moves into position for him. The petite blonde woman laughs and extends her hands, trying to calm the teen. Her rigid shoulders do not relax, but she nods and giggles again anyways. The photographer busies himself with his camera, and the girl nervously tosses her water bottle back and forth from hand to hand. Perhaps she is having her senior pictures taken, or she has been interviewed. Her laughter rings across the small hill to me, more buoyant and joyful than before. The blonde smiles, eager to help ease her subject. The photographer kneels to take shots from a new angle, shakes his head, and moves quickly to a new position. The two women make light conversation as the photographer decides his new angle, and the way the teen bounces her legs quickly shows that she has not quite relaxed enough to feel like she is not out-of-place.
At a nearby table, a young man in red sits hunched over his laptop. His fingers fly across the keyboard, and with each stroke he seems to bow lower over the machine. He pauses to think, and straightens up anew, like a typewriter swinging back to its home position after completing a line. His fingers twitch over the keys again, and his posture slumps once more into a position of concentration with his eyes so close to the screen it is a wonder that he can read his text at all.
A middle-aged man meanders down the path, texting with both hands. He holds the phone a considerable length from his face; he seems to have forgotten his reading glasses. He suddenly straightens and places one hand at his hip, the phone rising to his face. His torso twists at the waist as he looks around, observing his surroundings and murmuring, "Okay," again and again into the mouthpiece of his phone. He seems suspicious of the heavily-populated area tucked behind the museum that is usually devoid of people. He dances up the stairs on quick feet and hurries out of view.
Students move purposefully past the museum, heads bent to avoid eye contact with their fellow walkers. Phones are held at waist-height, making them difficult to read, but holding them any higher would require more effort than they are willing to expend on a Tuesday morning. One student stretches, her arms arching over her head, phone clasped securely in one tight fist. She looks up at the sky and a look of serenity crosses her face. Her faint smile pointed at the clouds welcomes the beautiful weather after the storms that have been hanging heavy over the small city for several weeks.
A group of incoming freshman sit in a circle with their NSE group-leader at the head. She tells them something interesting, and they all laugh. One boy, dressed in green, is the only one replying to her. Or rather, he is the the one commanding her attention and leaving no room for any of the other students to reply. His legs are outstretched on the table in the center of the circle, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, assuming a dominant position. His confident posture says one thing: I know I'm the shit. The girl at his side seems uncomfortable to have his arm behind her. She nervously glances at him, her legs drawn in tight beneath her and her hands folded in her lap, trying to make herself as small as possible. She does nothing to push him away from her, but the way she gnaws her bottom lip says she wants to.
A girl sits alone at a table, her feet propped up on the seat opposite her. The remnants of her lunch lay scattered across the table, and she has a book propped open in her hand. She sits motionless, for the most part. Occasionally she will sigh in frustration and place one hand over her face in exasperation. She will grip the book tightly in her hands as though wanting to fling it across the room, and then relax back into a calm posture of rapt attention. Her face will pinch every few paragraphs and her fingers will tighten on the book, but she will force herself to keep reading to finish in time.
A family walks slowly past, eying the options the Union has to offer for lunch. It is an unusual family; the father is tall and broad, balding, with sunburnt skin. If he hadn't spent too long outside, his skin would be porcelain and scattered with freckles that are now hard to see against the red contrast. His wide is a small Asian woman in very loose sweatpants. Her shoulders lean forward, bowing her back out behind her, and the way she walks is graceless. Her sandals slap the floor with each step. Their two teenaged daughters have long, straightened hair and wear white short-shorts and matching tie-dye T-shirts. The almond shape of their eyes is the only feature they have inherited from their mother. The youngest chews her gum loudly, her lips parted and jaw slack. Her older sister tosses her hair repeatedly, as though it were trapped in the neck of her shirt and she wished to free it. Her father places a hand on her lower back to guide her to the right as he has chosen where the family will eat for lunch. His wife and younger daughter follow.
A tall and bearded man paces back and forth along the back of the fountain outside the Union. He has his phone pressed to his cheek, and his attention is more focused on his conversation than his movement. His feet stray close to the fountain's edge on occasion, and I keep my eyes on him longer than necessary just in case his attention is spread a little too thin and he tumbles into the water. He eventually steps off the stone wall and walks away without incident, to my disappointment.
A girl sits on the steps of the fountain, her feet dipped into the cool water. Her small purse sits dangerously close to the water's edge, but she pays it no mind. Her phone is cradled between her knees. I'm amazed she can she the screen through her dark glasses, but she makes no move to remove them. After a few moments of motionlessness, she stands, throws her purse over her forearm, and wanders off. Her fingers run absentmindedly through her ponytail and she curls the hair around one finger, head swinging slowly from side to side. She paces near the fountain, eyes occasionally moving back to her phone and then back up, head swinging slowly from side to side, and back down to her phone. The person she is waiting for does not arrive, and after pausing to deliberate, she turns and moves back to the fountain to dip her toes into the water.
