"Hey sunshine, the morning says hello to your sweet face." The blond man flashes him a not-so-innocent smile before turning back around and walking away. Xander sneers at him, irritated and steely faced before returning back to his cigarette. What an asshole. He blows smoke from his lips and watches the white mist ravel and twine itself into the grey sky, dissipating into a clear smog. Inhaling again, he leaned back against the wall, cool and rough brick scratching his skin and he sighed, aside from the encounter this was his favourite section of the campus where no one passed by, a small corner at the back in the shade of trees and cement with the sweet scent of white blossoms. A place to unwind just after his lecture ended. He sighed and
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He sits himself in the spot he had been occupying the whole year, underneath the shade of an oak, enjoying the flickering filtered light of leaves beneath the sun dappling his vision. He takes out his books and laptop and begins by lighting another cigarette, inhaling the burning sensation and feeling it flicker around in his mouth. He rereads a few passages, highlights some lines, types something. The Odyssey is a heavy and thick book, both context and size-wise, the paper is a fine yellowed, buckled and dog eared thing with splashes of highlighters and ink scribbled in the margins, asterisks and notes and arrows flying across its papery expanse. Xander was never the one to keep his books pristine and as unblemished as the form they were purchased, he didn't see what the whole fucking fuss was about anyway, as long as the words were there what was the goddamn difference? The oldest books he owned, birthday gifts when he was young that ranged from Rowling to Murakami to picture books from distant family friends who didn't give a shit about him, all of them by this point were in a disarray of frayed, well-turned pages and old stains and creases, the more read ones held together with masking tape from hazardous accidents in their travels in his
He sits himself in the spot he had been occupying the whole year, underneath the shade of an oak, enjoying the flickering filtered light of leaves beneath the sun dappling his vision. He takes out his books and laptop and begins by lighting another cigarette, inhaling the burning sensation and feeling it flicker around in his mouth. He rereads a few passages, highlights some lines, types something. The Odyssey is a heavy and thick book, both context and size-wise, the paper is a fine yellowed, buckled and dog eared thing with splashes of highlighters and ink scribbled in the margins, asterisks and notes and arrows flying across its papery expanse. Xander was never the one to keep his books pristine and as unblemished as the form they were purchased, he didn't see what the whole fucking fuss was about anyway, as long as the words were there what was the goddamn difference? The oldest books he owned, birthday gifts when he was young that ranged from Rowling to Murakami to picture books from distant family friends who didn't give a shit about him, all of them by this point were in a disarray of frayed, well-turned pages and old stains and creases, the more read ones held together with masking tape from hazardous accidents in their travels in his