The Dismantled Alter of Life

i. the friends

Hayley Blythe and Mary Griffin trekked briskly across campus with little regard for the seasonal decorations and social events scattered around them, thoughts distracted entirely by midterm exams and imminent academic survival. One of the university choral groups was set up on the front lawn, practicing their Christmas carols, attempting to provide some ephemeral peace to assuage the sempiternal stress of being in college. The panic was setting in.

It was upon the fifth night of September, amid a particularly tenacious windstorm, that the love of Hayley's life walked into the campus café with another woman on his arm. Of course, as she and he with whom she found herself ever so besotted had never even discussed furthering their acquaintanceship, there was no reason that the young man ought not have a pretty girl on his arm.

Such reasoning never entered the mind of the red-cheeked, wind-swept woman who stood outside the café, struck still as though by lightening, at the sight of the couple within.  Tears sprang to her eyes, heart swelling with ineffable pain, every ounce of joy seeping out and being replaced by profound loss.

"Oh, Hale," Mary's chiding, amused voice sounded, a gloved hand resting on her back. The voice of a dear friend served as little more than consolement with the words, "You've known him for three weeks. Let him go." She'd never approved of the attraction anyway—the man was inarticulate and lazy, a far inferior student to Hayley. Her opinion on the matter had never been voiced aloud, but his immediate disqualification from Hayley's interest had been a priority in her prayers.

Eyes red by tears or wind, Hayley turned woefully to her companion, frustrated by her apparent apathy towards something she felt as mortal loss. "But, Mary, he's so perfect for me." She wailed.

Brown-haired and brown-eyed Mary reached up to pull the band of Hayley's hat down over her eyes. "You're only ruining your own life by looking at him that way. Come on, let's go in; I'm freezing." She seized the mourning woman by the shoulders and turned her toward the door, giving her a push. "Don't even look at Joseph Shirley."

Hayley, still displeased, led the way with no further prompting.

{ tenebrous }

"Starting a war merely to garner favor via the rally effect is a terrible idea."

"It was your idea."

"I have zero follow-through, which makes all of my jokes void. This is all on you."

Few topics of conversation could elicit as deep a passionate fervor as society and economy within Charles, but the only response he gave was a stare so thoroughly unimpressed that Betty thought he might be ill. The harsh lines of his features, the nearly black eyes, all of it piled together just to make her shift awkwardly in her seat. She had hoped she could spurn an indignant response by inciting some idea of social injustice, but she seemed to be falling hopelessly short.

After a long moment of judgmental silence, her male companion pulled his glasses off to clean them and lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. He had one foot propped up on the seat of the chair next to him, one elbow balanced on his arched knee. The dark navy blue ribbed sweater he wore contrasted the white pressed collar poking out from beneath, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "The fact remains, you would have quick and effective results."

The tension in the room shifted to Betty's side of the table. No longer was she uncomfortably sitting in judgement, rather considering hurling a blunt object at him. "Not to my satisfaction. The cost of war is too much to consider for this singular purpose, and once the conflict is over, the approval ratings start dropping all over again. It's barely worth it." She pushed her chair back from the table, wood scraping against wood. The floor panels creaked under her shoes as she moved to the stove and poured them both steaming cups of tea.