oligotrophic

[written late at night/early in the morning, all in one go, on the train, and as of yet woefully unedited. may be fixed someday.]

Stephanie finished her environmental studies final with the feeling she had skipped a page. It had seemed too short, or too easy, and both thoughts worried her. Her fingers combed nervously through her black hair as she flipped through the test's seven pages, unable to find the phantom eighth. Unwilling to agonize and relieved, in any case, to have it over and done with, she handed in the exam and left the building with an appreciative breath of the fragrant, humid air. After a month of 80-degree days spent locked indoors, Summer, that cruel tease, had arrived.

She had appeared to some earlier than to Stephanie. A freckled figure lay on the grassy quad outside her dorm, and in its freckled face lay a familiar pair of hazel eyes. They rose to meet Stephanie as she approached, their look expectant.

“So, how’d it go?” asked Pluck.

“Fine, I think,” answered Stephanie. Her boyfriend’s name was Peter, but he preferred Pluck, a nickname given to him by his father, whose first name was Joe, and whom Stephanie simply called Papa Fletcher.

“Good.” He grinned and grabbed her around the waist, spinning her around on the concrete path and planting a kiss on her mint-balmed lips. “Congratulations –– you’re done.”

Stephanie smiled. “Tell me about it.”

The pair dropped Stephanie’s bag in her room, then headed back outside to soak up the sun. Reclining with his head on his girlfriend’s stomach, Pluck informed her that had a surprise planned for her that evening. Stephanie asked after the nature of it, but to no avail: Pluck just smirked and wagged his finger at her, mischief sparkling in his hazel eyes. When she protested, he tickled her; when she protested louder, he kissed her.

“Tonight at eleven,” he told her. “I’ll come for you.”

“Fine,” Stephanie answered. Soon after, as he began the trek back to his own dorm, she called after him, “What should I wear?”

Pluck turned and walked backwards to answer. “Doesn’t matter,” he called. “You know I don’t pay any attention to clothes.”

“I’m onto you, Pluck Fletcher,” she cried, grinning irrepressibly. Pluck just smirked and waved goodbye before disappearing around the corner of the dormitory.

She spent the intervening hours with her hallmates, relaxing and rejoicing in their newfound freedom. Tomorrow, everyone would start trickling away from campus, but tonight was not a night of packing: it was a night of silly revelry, as well it should have been, thought Stephanie. The sounds of dance music and xBox consoles filled the dorm.

After dinner, she retired her jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers for a long skirt, tank top, and flip-flops. Her outfit was overwhelmingly green. Stephanie had liked to wear green long before her treehugging tendencies took hold; it brought out the best in her tan, Vietnamese skin.

Pluck was predictably late, but came bearing a white rose, which Stephanie promptly cut short and tucked behind her ear, despite Pluck’s objections.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she pointed out. “Even if I had a vase for it, how could I bring it home?”

“I guess,” he conceded.

They stepped outside, then he blindfolded her and spun her in circles.

“This is unnecessary.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “it is absolutely necessary.”

“Don’t lead me off any cliffs.”

“Don’t worry, baby.”

Pluck gave Stephanie no opportunity to feel out his secret route: the next moment, he had scooped her into his arms. The sounds of campus were uniformly celebrative, and were therefore of no help to her. Her sense of direction completely befuddled, Stephanie gave up and hung on tight.

“Ready?” Pluck whispered after what seemed like an hour of walking.

“Maybe?”

“No, really –– get ready.”

“Why?”

In answer, Pluck held Stephanie away from his chest and dropped her. She expected to fall shortly to ground, and was therefore quite alarmed when, after a drop of several feet, her skin met with cool water. The soaked blindfold fell from her eyes in time for her to see Pluck, a swimmer by trade, dive into the lake next to her, clad only in his khaki shorts. Her feet came to a rest on the silty lake bottom, her shoulders left just above its glassy surface.

When Pluck emerged from the water, he was attacked by a furious and waterlogged girlfriend.

“What the hell, Peter! “

“Relax, Steph.” Pluck smiled and slipped his hands inside the waistband of her skirt to rest on her hips. “I did my homework. No gross algae to worry about here. The lake’s oligotrophic.”

“It had damn well better be!” she cried indignantly. “I kind of like this skirt, you know ––”

And she would have continued, had not a merciless dunk silenced her. Pluck loved the panicked look in her eyes underwater almost as much as he loved her.