My Cardboard Balcony

April's Cold Hands by Belinda Roddie April's cold hands caressed my naked back as I sat on the patio, drinking a tall flute of pink lemonade, a stack of books beside me. "So, I was thinking," she murmured, "that we could go see a show tonight, and then take a long walk under the stars. We'll stop at a bar that I know, down chilled beers, and pretend that it's summer." But I was focusing on my neighbor - her name was May, and she sat on a lawn chair, soaking in the spring sun, and her hair glistened in the light. I stopped a yawn, slurped up the last sweetness in my glass, and left April behind for sweet May's warm hand.

They expected us to be joyful. They expected us to bounce up and down in our brightly cushioned seats with a childish glee, our knees knocking together in an unbridled, unprofessional ecstasy. We weren't joyful. We didn't bounce. Not even a smile flashed across a single pair of lips in the room. The board of trustees waited in silence for a signal of affirmation, be it applause or a whistle, or snapping fingers. No such affirmation occurred. The quiet continued for a good twenty minutes after the announcement, with no one daring to break it.