Outside the back of the proscenium theater, the umbrellas blossomed as a light drizzle wafted onto the brick pathways. Anjali called goodbye and waved to the lights technician and the two assistant stage managers before ducking back into the squalid exit hall. There, she unwrapped her hooded mini-trenchcoat from her waist. Within the pocket, she found her phone, pressed the on button, and found three messages from Aunt Matildea—not really her aunt, more like second cousin once removed on the Sassoon side.
Anjali knew that Aunt Tildea was only paying attention to anybody else after a breakup with the latest flame, who was half Aunt Tildea's age at that. She sent a text message of "sorry missed your calls, rough rehearsal today went overtime" which was true, followed by "omw to library, can't talk; dirq hopes u like the show, super talented sophomores, 1 compli tckt 4u" which was also true. Anjali pulled the faux fur lined hood over her head, deliberating between ending on a " :) " and ending on a " <3 ". She went with the former.
With the library on the other side of the vast and sparsely-sheltered campus, the misty drizzle threatening to turn into proper rain, and her coat meant more for warmth than waterproofing, Anjali would usually push for what she'd grown up calling her tee 'n' aitch: short for 'turtle and hare' trick. She'd called it that before they taught her in freshman year that it was 226 on the Perry Index of Aesop's Fables: the hare was so sure to win a footrace with the lowly turtle that they rested right before the finish line, waking only at the moment that the turtle stepped past the resting competitor…
She felt burnt out on it today. That burnt-out feeling would usually go away once things evened out, around the waxing gibbous moon at most. She'd only gotten hiccups during the waning moon twice before, and the anticipation was awful.
Fortunately, she'd taken the route through the forested park on the campus when Aunt Tildea properly called her, and while she tried to move and talk as quickly as possible in case it happened—well, that's when it happened.
The leaves and branches twitched like jumping spiders, the rain splashed right on her head like an ocean wave, the early afternoon light behind the clouds paled and darkened like a window curtain in a storm…
And when it all passed, Aunt Tildea had hung up. Anjali also received a text message, probably ten minutes after it being sent despite Aunt Tildea living in the same city and using the same service provider: "Is slurred speech a symptom of association? Please see a doctor about it, dear. Thoughts and prayers </3 "
So Aunt Tildea wasn't too offended, then.
And the hiccup had happened. It was like a fog had lifted, not literally, but in Anjali's mind. No more pending hiccups.
Clean slate. I can TNH as much as I want to now, she thought, as she continued walking through the misty woods to the library. As much as I please…and so, I won't at all. I won't need to. She told herself this every time she balanced out.
At the library, Anjali shook her jacket dry and wrapped it around her waist again before entering. The librarian at the counter gave her a quiet talk about how she didn't want umbrellas and jackets dripping on the marble floor and especially not the carpet, so Anjali left it on the coat hanger (taking her phone out of the pocket and shutting it off before taking it with her). The librarian, maybe taking pity on Anjali who was rubbing her own arms for warmth, mentioned that there would be some blankets in the cubby-hole shelf near the reading nook on the third floor: very thin, but soft and warm rayon or perhaps even cashmere, and really put there more for display but they were due to be laundered anyway. Anjali could just leave the blanket at the counter before she left the library.
Anjali nodded appreciatively, but also asked to first find out where she could find a copy of the book Search for Authenticity by Regina Bendix, about folklore analysis. Fortunately that, too, would also be in a shelf section on the third floor.
