Amanda and a few others loiter in the Eppley lobby. She and I talk as if we still see each other everyday. Her curly hair is tied back in a braid, the blonde only a few shades darker than her pale skin. Amanda stands a little taller than me, but at my 4′ 11″ that isn’t much of a feat. She’s wearing straight-leg jeans and a black pullover. She’s small but stocky, an obvious strength in her posture. Her voice is low. It sits in her mouth for a moment before she speaks.
She’s a senior in high school, and her lamentations about her terminal senioritis are all you would need to hear to know that. Her face is round, but expressive. She smiles as she praises the artists from the evening, Presidio, a brass group. Amanda, who plays the trumpet, practically fawns over the trumpet playing that night.
“She and I talk as if we still see each other everyday.” That’s a nice line. It says a lot without seeming to say much at all.
“Lamentations” is also pretty cool.