Snapshot of a friend

Long black curls fall down over the gray, pink, blue, and burgundy stripes of her shirt. Her big brown eyes sparkle as she listens intently. We're sitting around a small table near the back of The Café -- Janelle, Michael and I -- talking quietly, chuckling, and enjoying a lunch the way we used to before the semester put us each on separate schedules.

Just as Michael walks past her to leave, she whirls in her chair, arm outstretched, and knocks the drink out of his hand, sending ice, soda, a straw, and the cup splashing onto the carpet. Her hands go immediately to her face, fingers spread wide to hide herself. She's laughing hard, but silently, her body quivering with each breath, but only a squeak escapes from behind her hands.

“I'm so sorry she says,” still squeaking, still trying to catch her breath. She's blushing through her dark skin even as he leaves.

She turns to me and gives her purse a forceful shove away from her. “I feel like I have a barrier in front of me,” she explains. She's animated today – in her actions, in her voice, in the glow on her face. She clasps her hands in her lap and leans forward as we talk. She's talking about graduating, finding a job, hoping her internship leads to employment.

She's graduating in a few weeks and, though we'll still remain friends, these quiet (though sporadic) lunches in The Café will soon become something we did back in college.