“You know what I’m afraid of?” I say to the smooth, unblinking ceiling, “getting head lice.” 

From her bed across the room, my roommate laughs. The halves of our dorm are like mismatched butterfly wings, contrasting in color and content, yet strong enough for flight. She complains of the unceasing stare of 80s rock stars from the overpriced posters on my wall; I critique the rainbow construction paper squares that line the perimeter of hers. Behind us, a large window illuminates the room with the artificial glow of downtown grocery stores and fast-food chains. The faint smell of marijuana permeates our thin walls from its origin somewhere down the hall. The never-ending drone of the heater is our silence, and its presence sings us to sleep every night. 

We’ve had this conversation before, though the topic is ever changing. From our lofted beds, we contemplate marriage, careers, and children, peering forward to predict the people we’ll be in 15 years. At times we get philosophical, debating love and God and loneliness and life. Tonight, we discuss head lice.  

She turns in her covers to face me, sharing her abundance of lived experience from being nine days my senior. I listen to her description of treatments and plastic trash bags and fine-tooth combs, not fully convinced that this brief inconvenience isn’t incapacitating long term. I have a tendency to fear everything, a habit that she takes in stride. We have a balance, she and I. The Catholic and the Atheist. The introvert and the extrovert. The blue and the pink.

At length, we grow tired of conversation, and I try to sleep as she returns to her Kindle. 

I toss and turn, head itching in paranoia.

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