Leila doesn’t do her homework on Sunday night.
Rather she peeks out the window and squints at the street lamps, where tiny snowflakes are floating to the earth in the dim, amber light. No school, she thinks, biting her lip, please, no school, because she doesn’t really want a snow day, but she doesn’t want to make the trek to Scott Hall and back from the parking deck in ten degree weather, either, and, staring wearily at her thirty page reading on the psychoanalytic approach to analyzing fairy tales, well—you know.
So she watches out the window. Turns back to the article and reads a paragraph, then tosses it aside and pulls up Twitter for a few seconds or minutes or hours instead. Stares out the window again, and the snow isn’t sticking, so the elementary schools and the government are in a state of emergency for naught, and she should probably do her homework.
But she doesn’t waaaant to. It’s too cold to think. It’s too cold to exist. Isn’t March supposed to put an end to cold fronts?
Leila brings the portable heater closer toward her and reaches for her reading again. What ensues is a staring contest with Bettleheim and Freud and a re-count of how many pages there are to go, and then a second competition with the window. A third with the clock on her wall, ticking away the midnight hour and her igniting her apathy.
Leila shivers and yawns and shuffles her things aside, pulling the blanket up to call it a night. There’s still a chance for those 4-8 inches of snow, right? Winter Storm Titan could live up to its name and catch her and campus services by surprise, and maybe she’ll wake up for prayer and do her shivering wudu and find out that instead of having to get ready for her 9 A.M. class she gets to sleep in a few extra hours.
Please, Allah. Let Titan do its thing.
So laziness wins and she sleeps.
(Titan doesn’t do its thing, and school doesn’t close, so she has to skim the article before class, and she has to walk to Scott Hall and back at 9 A.M. in 10 degree weather, and, well. Probably deserved that one.)