for all it's worth

My books are spread across the floor, wide circles testament to midterms and procrastination. The Complete Essays of Montaigne teeters on top of a messy pile of science tomes. The phone is at my side, my staedtler pens arranged neatly in color order. Across from scribbled notes on Anaximander and Rhazes the Italian dictionary is open to scraziato and while I delight in the idea that one of my favorite words in English sounds just as pleasing in Italy the hall outside this room is echo-filled in laughter as girls dash from room to room, ensuring all know of their planned exploits. It is Friday night.

"You're going on a date? Again?" A squeal comes from across the way.
"Oh, please, Kat. She's always going on dates." The reply is muffled, scathing.

Beth laughs, that soft, gentle laugh that reminds me of a period movie.

"Who doesn't have a date tonight?" she replies as she pulls the door closed behind her.

I sigh, search through my notes on Pre-Socratics. Answer: I don't.