Saying goodbye is easy.

Saying goodbye isn't easy.

The class of 2006 graduated, and the next class to graduate is mine.

The friendships I've developed with those graduating before me will never be the same. Our friendships will no longer be unintentional. Our lives will not interfere with each other's unless I do it purposely--unless I act. I hate acting.

Saying hello isn't so easy either.

I wrote a descriptive story about the first time I met Shirley Q.

Two boys, in the cafeteria, huddled around an Indian taco, that is neither Indian nor taco, eating Grape Nuts cereal, containing neither grapes nor nuts, and discussing Christian science, neither Christian nor science, spot a beautiful girl. The girl being both female and beautiful.

`“She is electric,” Benjamin, the brown haired Minnesotan with Californian

tendancies said.

“Indeed. Electric. Good electric or bad electric?” the boy said to Benjamin.

“Electric like an eel. Definitely good electric,” Benjamin asserted.

“Strange analogy.”

“I do what I can. You know her?”

“Not yet, but maybe she'll go to banquet with me,”the boy said.

The cafeteria is too busy. The chefs are not in a hurry.

The cafeteria offers six types of food. By the entrance are the salads and drinks. Sixty feet across the room is the Deli, where students have a choice of four cheeses, four meets and two types of bread. In between those two areas is the Pizza section, the Italian section, the Home Cooked section, and the Vegetarian Section. All four lined up against the left wall–modeled after a Science fair I'm sure, with no room between them.

The cafeteria offers too many foods, but only one smell. None of the smells are good. None of the smells are distinct. It all smells like a combination of ranch and pizza grease, and can be identified on clothing–three hours after leaving the cafeteria. The ceiling hosts two classy chandeliers. Those chandeliers are surrounded by fluorescent lights. The light isn't annoying because the carpet, with tone and texture similar to dried up blood, absorbs most of it. The cafeteria is clean. Of the thirty, ten foot tables, all are in place, and only one is full of students. Every fifteen minutes the frowning staff lady with the rag wets down the tables. She doesn't use soap–only water.

Under the drinks section, a dark haired, bronze toned Guatemalan girl, wearing a plaid business suit begins exiting the cafeteria. She has the ranch and grease smell. Her shoulder length hair is purposely flipped out at the end. As she reaches for the door, a young dark haired, darkly bronzed young man attempts tapping her on the shoulder. He taps her neck. She doesn't exit. He has the non-rock star bed head look, half his shirt is tucked in, half his shirt is tucked out. He too has the ranch and grease smell. She turns, and they both notice each other's ranch and grease smell.

“Excuse me?” the boy inquires.

The flipped out Guatemalan girl adjusts her coat, and turns around. “Yes?”

“May I ask you a question?” He extends his hand.

“You just did.” The Guatemalan smiles, and the non rock star tucks in the rest of his shirt.

“Oh. Well, I've been wanting to ask you to banquet,” the boy proposed.

“Okay. Ask me.”

“Will you go to banquet with me?” the boy proposed.

“What's your name?” She said with transition, as she started to leave again.

“Sorry, it's Pradeepan. What's your name?”

“That's okay, you don't have to be sorry.”

“??” the Pradeepan was.

“Shirley, and yes, but I have to check my schedule first. Actually, when is it?

“Sunday? I'm not sure.” the ?? asserted.

“Well, you let me know, okay? Here's my number.” She hands him a business card.

“Call me when you know something.”

He takes the card. “Thanks, I will. W'ere going to have a great time. Adios?”

“We better. Mucho gusto?”

“Wow,” the boy thought, “electric.”

The result:

Booya.