The air is crisp, the sun is out but it doesn’t do much against the winter cold. My jacket isn’t holding up, too many patterns, too little fabric. Arms crossed against goosebumps, straightened hair being blown back to the way it was meant to be. Three girls, in a row, laughing, words too quiet for me to understand. A reference. I don’t know this one, I haven’t looked it up. The courtyard is wide and not too many people are there. We’re only cutting through to get to the grassy, tar field that may have warmed because of the sun’s bright light. I walk a little faster, I try to match their pace. But the courtyard isn’t wide enough for four, others have tried. I can get right there behind them, but it isn’t really with them, I’d just be with their backs. Watching their long straight hair swish back and forth. Not straightened. We reach the field, and I can sit down with them. They’re still talking about the reference, but I don’t get it, because the courtyard only fits three, and they got the joke.