Young Scrooge

D and I were in the university library. We were both writing our essays, or rather, should have been. Silence prevailed because it was 11pm and only the remaining swotters sat in front of their computers typing away, piles of research books all over their tables.

A Chinese boy wore a fresh shirt and his tie was still tightened; he kept putting his finger up to push his large, square framed glasses up his nose, as his fingers flew across his keyboard at breakneck speed. They didn’t stop tapping even when he glanced up and around him.

A group of students sat in one of the conference rooms not too far from us. They looked pretty chilled, leaning back in their chairs. One of them was playing a game on the large screen usually used for presentations.

They kept erupting into loud, muffled laughter.

D kept glaring at them.

“What’s wrong?” I asked after a while.

“They’re too happy” he growled, brows knitted together, as he angrily scrolled down a Pinterest page, procrastinating.

That made me laugh, folks. He sounds like an old, cantankerous grouch, my 24 year old husband does.