Taylor: Part I

Jewish custom commands one week of mourning after a first-degree relative dies. This mourning period, called shiva, involves various uncomfortable traditions that I have never personally observed.

I decided to observe a perverse modified shiva after I lost my virginity. I’m not sure what exactly I was mourning. My virginity, which I wanted so desperately to lose for years, anyway? My hymen, which had likely already broken long ago by other means?

I do not know. Regardless, for the next seven days, I wore black, listened to Joni Mitchell, and endeavored to avoid people as much as possible. I expected a week redolent of middle school, where I also I did those two things, though out of incompetence rather than intent.

A few days into my shiva, I was sitting at a desk in the library, of all places, when she approached me.

“Becca.”

I jumped, dropping my pen and nearly tipping over my water bottle. Turning hesitantly, I made eye contact with one of the several androgynously named female soccer players. I recognized her from around my dorm, with her shoulder-length brown hair, backwards cap, and permanently etched smirk. But I couldn’t recall her name. Avery? Devin? Jordan- ah.

“Taylor. You should use your library voice.”

“Don’t be a nerd,” she replied at the same volume, despite my rebuke. “Can I sit?” Rather than awaiting my response, she grabbed a chair from the adjacent empty desk and set it beside mine. I sighed at her impudence, emblematic of the women’s soccer team. “What, you’re upset?” She asked flippantly as she sat down.

Looking at her more closely from mere inches away, I registered other hitherto unnoticed features. Her eyes, a soft, light blue, struck me as exceptionally large. She had a strong nose, not aquiline, but substantial on her narrow face. Her lips turned up in an impish smile.

“I’m not upset.” I stated in an exaggeratedly low voice.

“Then why have you been wearing black for the past three days?”

“None of your business.” While I surely sounded combative, I felt not angry, but curious. Does she watch me that closely?

“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “I was going to say that it suits you.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, finally whispering. “Black looks good on you.”

I smelled mint on her words. Of course she’s chewing gum.

“Thanks,” I responded reluctantly. I wanted to find Taylor irritating; I had every right. As an introvert — in mourning, no less — I shouldn’t abide such brazenness.

But while I played the part of being irked, she did not irk me.

“So, what are you doing here? Excuse my bluntness, but I’ve never seen you in the library before.” Indeed, I hadn’t. I’d assumed the soccer girls majored in communications and spent their evenings with violent televised sports paired with mediocre beer.

“I heard you edit papers for people in our dorm,” she began, drumming her fingertips against the table. “I have this American lit paper, and my current draft is pretty bad. I was hoping you could proofread it for me.”

Her request lacked any inflection — a statement, not a question. She acted as if she knew I would edit her mass atrocity of an essay. Such chutzpah! I ought to chasten her right-

“Fine. Where is it?”

Repaying my misplaced generosity with a cheeky grin, she shrugged.

“I guess I forgot it. Mind if I swing by your room tomorrow night?”