The Buttery

Lisa, a freshman in our residential hall sister-suite, and I have become fast friends over the last couple of weeks. Before we began hanging out I penned a piece about her that she thought was hilarious. Last Friday night Lisa and I were supposed to meet people at “the buttery” (a café in the dorm basement) for another Friday night of pandemic-safe fun. As she readied, I regarded myself in her full-length mirror. She came up behind me, Mephistopheles to my Faustus, whispering, “You’re quite pretty,” while rearranging my hair into different styles. “But you need to cut your hair.” She began to drape me in scarves. “I have a coiffeur, in New York (city), we could go there one weekend and stay with my parents.” She turned solemn, “How old are you?” she asked. “18,” I answered. “Perfect, you don’t want to look like a schoolgirl - or a milkmaid.” She grinned and murmured conspiratorially, “You could be wickedly stylish.” And like that, it was decided - we’ll go on fall break together. I want more than a change in hairstyle though, I want to learn her secret. It’s hard to describe - but there‘s a kind of density, an unidentified importance to her femaleness that I envy. Is it something I can learn, something she could teach or that I could osmose? I can’t help but wonder. I even told her as much. She looked at me, blank-faced, and then made a loud fart sound with her lips. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic. With DJ Cummberbund playing in the background, she began humming and as we looked in the mirror she started dancing. “Can you do the whole shack shimmy? It’s easy.” Of course, it isn’t and soon we collapsed in laughter on the charmeuse eiderdown quilt of her bed. Her room was a mess, clothes lay everywhere, satin, silk, chantilly and crêpe de chine - enchanted clothes that could turn ordinary girls into someone else - they were hung on chairs, the mirror, and littered the floor. I was admiring the fairy lights draped across her ceiling and wondering if her bed was cushier than mine when she turned serious. “This place (Yale) will get to you if you don’t have some fun,” she said, sounding very intense, I nodded. She was suddenly bored and angry, a not-quite domesticated animal. “I wish there was somewhere to GO,” she said, “somewhere NEW,” she added contemptuously, “f--king pandemic.” I had to agree. In a few moments though, we’d collected ourselves and set off to the buttery to see what fun there was to be had there. . . . ps, I write short stories too