I feel the voices of the overcrowded dining room follow me, bouncing off the walls, beneath my footsteps to the table, and up my spine. Clumps of chairs and hunched over bodies fixate like the mud, rain, and wind outside that I'll wade through to get home later. I finally reach my seat tired from the day's vigor, though I try not to admit it. The noise of clinking forks, small talk laughter, and the shoving screech of chairs keeps my mind's wandering at bay. I'm not ready to go through the events of today and look at what I did wrong, what could've been done better, and what to do now. My elbows fall against the cold, shaky table top with the weight of my face on my folded hands following. I say an unclear prayer over the food that I can't hear above the noise of the dining hall; I feel for the words behind my closed eyes and through my pressed together fingertips. I settle for the feeling of goosebumps as proof that I tried hard enough and whisper "Amen". I look down to see the baked tilapia that I know will taste off even with the tartar sauce and the bitter spring mix sweetened with dried cranberries. It's a limp, soggy, and chilled meal, but my stomach grumbles for it anyway.
My eyes climb the back of the first person that passes by me. A mop of brown curls held in a swishing ponytail sits down at a group table diagonal of mine. She sits and reveals a smile that flatters her pudgy cheeks and pinking skin. Barely looking down for a moment, my fork sinks into the fish and breaks off my first bite. I notice a burgundy felt sweater hugging a broad torso that's sitting next to the pink cheeks girl. I finish observing the rest of the table with two more bites. Sheer tan stockings with a hole by the knee, I chew my first bite carefully to mush, gelled black hair with one side of the head shaved, the off-taste of the fish seeps out of my nose, worn brown riding boots that scoot off to get something else from the kitchen. I'm not as slow and distracted when I take my second bite. I take another bite-size chunk of fish, there's a loose dull baby blue shirt doting on a petite frame, I quickly chew and swallow the fish to move onto my salad, a purple lipstick painted mouth reveals a soft and complacent smile. I move on with my meal and people watching. My observations become blurred, no longer singular amongst the layer of chatter and mainly white faces. Some of these features I've seen, some I haven't, and the rest I don't remember. With a third of my food left, my mind finds my responsibilities and holds fast to them. I exhale to officially end dinner time. Getting up, I pack and walk away from the last of the noise by the trash can and into the windy quiet of the evening.
Excellent use of sensory observations and descriptions. There are many deviations in the narrator's train of thought, as she is continuously bombarded with external stimuli. The noise and motion around her are interfering with her ability to concentrate, and the reader also gets a sense that she may feel a bit out of place. The text is impressionistic because one never quite obtains a clear, comprehensive picture of the dining hall - only glimpses of things that cross into the narrator's line of vision / thought. I also liked how there was a strong distinction made between the narrator and the others through her internal musings alone. She mentions that she was trying to pray, and she seems to have a very gracious attitude in general. It made me think about what a modern society values - whether people do things with purpose and meaning or whether they are simply going through the motions in life like many of the dining hall occupants. The last line would support this, because the narrator leaves the incessant chatter of the dining hall for the quiet of the evening. Very nice!
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