Midnight Coffee Kate Tully

Midnight Coffee

It was Monday. God, I hate Mondays. I also hate 8am classes. Especially on a Monday. I barely slept last night. I hardly ever do it on Sundays. Sundays are what I like to call “click the restart button on your life and remind yourself you have to graduate in two years” day. Traditions include midnight coffee in the library, energy drinks with concerningly high caffeine levels, pretzels, lots of those, occasionally alcohol if I’m feeling frisky, and a ton of the protein bars that they have at the rec.

Last night was one of those nights; I drowned my sorrows with whiskey and attempted to write a paper. It never works out. The night normally ends with me passed out on a couch somewhere on campus. And last night was no different. It was 3am. I felt my body wake up as my ears heard the world around me. I slowly, painfully, opened my eyes to the bright lights above. My vision was blurry, my head throbbing. I slowly sat up to a dizzy view of the library near my dorm. I had no clue how the hell or when the hell I got here, but at least it’s not somewhere across town. I peered into the dreary lighted room around me. Empty chairs, offline computers, pure silence. It was just me, a table fan, and my chemistry textbook. Drunk in a school library. At 3am.

I fell back in my chair and stared at the paneled ceiling above. Some of the panels had brown and gray stains on them, while some collected dust and lint. You’d think for a school as old and rich as ours they would at least have nicer ceilings. Northeastern schools are supposed to be pretty, but somehow ours managed to slip the list. Everything here looked like it came straight from 1899, when the school was started. Every room smelled like the rotten fish from the boat our school’s “founding fathers” came here on. I wanted to go to a nicer school out West, but God forbid I go to a school other than the

one founded by my great-grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that part.

My great-grandfather founded Harleston University with his stepbrother in 1899. He claimed to have a calling to “help young minds grow to their full potential,” but I think his church was just broke as dirt and needed another source of income. So good ol’ great-grandaddy and his dear brother found Harleston University named after the street the church was on. In 1960, my great uncle, Oliver, took over the church and school and separated the two completely, so we could receive partial state funding. Sixty-five years later, here we are. Their precious “heir,” drunk, in their disgusting old library, at 3am.

I decide I need to stand up, stretch my legs, and shake off the intoxication. As I attempt to stand, my leg begins to quiver and give out. As I fall on the concrete floor, I hear a snicker behind me. I turn around to see a girl I’ve never seen before. Her eyes are the brightest green. She stands a good ten yards away from me, but I can see them from here. Her hair is the color of chocolate milk. Mmm. Chocolate milk is my favorite.

I quit staring and yell to her in a stern, yet sarcastic voice. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

“Just observing,” she replies, snickering under her breath, walking closer towards me. “How was your night?”

“Quite amazing, thank yo—”, I slur my words.

“You know, the dried cheek drool and empty whiskey bottle are quite the give away,” she smiles and wipes my cheek. I cannot look away from those eyes. They are ravishing.

“You’re funny,” I say, “What’s your name?”