The Pen, a short story for my creative writing fiction class
Strutting down the aisle all entitled-like, he stopped in front of the seat next to me, waiting. The seat was obviously occupied by my jacket, but that didn’t bother him. For the next minute and a half, he drowned out the lecture with the shuffling of his backpack – binder out, binder in, laptop out, laptop in, the son of a bitch couldn’t decide. Just as I leaned in to hear the professor repeat an explanation I had missed, he tapped my shoulder and boomed the question-statement, “You got a pencil?” Whispering was below him.
I reached inside my pencil case, shuffled through my many pencils, and handed him a pen I knew to be sputtering to its quiet death. He grasped it out of my hand, set it down, and was immediately too busy pulling his phone out of his pocket to even mutter a quick thanks. The proof on the board must have short-circuited his brain because my pen lay untouched on his desk while he diverted his concentration to methodically tapping his phone every second or so. Most definitely Flappy Bird.
The smell hit me like a freight train. Sometime between “proof by induction” and “linear homogeneous recurrence”, he had unwrapped an oversized burrito and was proceeding to stuff chunks of it into his stupid face. Maybe he knew that I hadn’t eaten all day and was specifically choosing to torment me. While it was the first thing I noticed, the smell wasn’t the worst part. His earlier disruptive expedition into his backpack was nothing compared to his flagrant chewing, his deafening mastication, his shameless smacking of lips. He looked intently at the professor now, as if he actually cared, mocking my inability to hear anything besides the cacophony he was producing.
When class ended, I watched him take his sweet time packing up and swagger back up the aisle, trash from his burrito in tow. With each step he took, my chest loosened up and I breathed a bit freer. Then my heart stopped. The bastard had stolen my pen.