voyageur

Who do you go to ...

Imagine a cafeteria during dinner time. The air is stale with the smell of windex and Cantonese chicken. The lined-up, battered blue plastic trays shuffle in rows of two towards the culinary rabbithole. Plates clink, metal rubs against metal, and the whitenoise blends today's gossip and news into a succulent chatter. I balance exams, lecture notes, laptop stalking through the rows of bags, upside down chairs, food scraps. I am on a mission.

Track down, brief, duck, get out. After eleven hours, escape is all I can think. But when do wishes turn into reality? It is confession time.

Feet shuffle, and the dreaded Aarrgh ... could I talk to you for a second sounds next to me. Juggling my coffee mug on top of the pile of laptop and paper, I come to an unexpected halt. The blushing teenage boy is umphing his way through the next part as I peak around the corner behind which he is hiding. At least I think it is a blush. Could you take a look at this, clutching his arms tightly to his body. I don't get it, not even after a hastily added What can I do about this? And then I spot them: large brownish patches on milk-fed English teenage shoolboy skin. They unevenly crown hands, forearms, neck and one leg. A face scrubbed red hides more. I give him the everything is swell grin and try not to giggle while I ask the dreaded but somewhat inevitable question: Eh what? Blushing, more shuffling, awkward pause. Who do straight teenage boys confide in when they've accidentally used tanning lotion instead of moisterizer? Accidental use--probably, but not without a grain of doubt. Well, I say, you will have to wait until it wears off. Don't try bleach. I shake my head in wonderous amazement and leave.