A Minute and a Half

It was a Friday night, unusually chilly for April. Four girls made their way across campus, one skipping ahead with a grin, her slim figure throwing her dancing shadow across the cement pavement. She turned around occasionally, waiting for her companions to catch up, challenging them to a race to the car. A few feet behind her was another girl, this one with olive skin, and she smiled as she shook her head at the grinning girl's teasing remarks. Behind her were the last two companions, their heads huddled close as they spoke in whispers. The shorter of the two had moonlit-skin, and it was the tallest of the girls that took up the challenge to a race.

So they raced to the white Nissan that belonged to the tallest of the girls.

The four girls all lived in the same town, streets apart, but farther in life. The tallest of the girls slid behind the steering wheel, and the girl with the moonlit-skin took shot gun; and that left the girl with the grin and the olive-skinned girl in the backseat.

And just like that, four almost-strangers became close for a minute and a half.

They talked about boys, about life, about what they heard through the grape vine; they wrote their names on the windows, and sang along to the songs on the radio, even the ones they didn't know the lyrics to. Stories were told, secrets were spilled, confessions were made.

Five months later and I'm starting to realize, maybe it's better to keep some people as almost-strangers. And maybe a minute and a half is a minute and a half too long.