Woes of a lost scarf.

But it was a comfortable scarf. A nice scarf indeed.

I've never been so concerned about a scarf.

I’m wholly convinced someobdy took it. Just reached their hand into my bag amist a dull lecture wherein seconds and minutes and hours and even days all seemed the same. Maybe it was a mission for them, this blood rush they felt in their veins, where they pondered getting caught by the little five footer in front of them. Maybe they glanced up at the clock and maybe the sweat beaded at their head and maybe they inched it out with their foot and leaned down real cat-like and slowly pulled it out, acting nonchalant so as to fool the person next to them into thinking that it was truly their scarf and, really, I was the one who stole it. Or maybe they acted as though it slid beneath my seat and waited patiently for them to retrieve it.

I told myself that the guilty would come forward soon enough-- she would mistakenly wear it to class, freely showing it off, forgetting that she had taken it from me. And when she saw me she would not make eye contact for suddenly she would remember. But remove it she would not... that would be quite obvious. She would sit far away and act as though she was interested in the dates and wars and people who shaped Europe.

The thoughts and assumptions and accusations clouded my head, and as I sat arm-to-arm between my peers, I couldn’t help but feel awkward. I’m an American. I enjoy my space. Don’t get into my-- oh, please don’t. And I’m a sort of touchy-feely person, and I wholly love affection but the anxiety I experience when a complete stranger’s elbow brushes past my arm or their leg taps into my foot is so nerve-curling that my nervous habit of tapping my foot or swaying my knees distracts me so well that I am able to breathe in beats rather than swallows.

So I started fumbiling with necklaces.

A new habit entirely unique to this one class, this one hour and fifteen minutes. I could look down and act as though I was listening while I quietly concentrated on my fingers and this necklace. My peers on either side were cut out from periphreal vision and I was able to relax, easy enough. Wrong. I was a seventh grader, caught by the teacher midway between a note pass-- she called me out: "Having trouble with the necklace?" In broken words, "Oh, uh. It’s sort of a nervous habit." And throughout the lecture I couldn’t think anymore. My concentration was gone. I forgot the peers. I forgot the clock. I forgot the elbows and the knees and the coughing and the clicking and the scribbling and-- the scarf! I forgot the scarf! All I could focus on were the words that came out of my mouth: "it’s sort of a nervous habit. It’s sort of a nervous habit. It’s sort of a nervous habit." And half of my mind told myself that nobody remembered my words-- nobody cared, half the class was sleeping, some were fixed on the clock, few might’ve realized my words were not the teachers and had to erase "it’s sort of..." from their note ridden book.

I didn’t show up to class the next day.

And I bet she wore the scarf.

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