A classmate (23) at school finds a bottle of salt in the tiny room in the back of the department, the one with no windows and a microwave.

She’s feeling lightheaded, as though she is going to faint. She makes a show out of slowly pouring a large pile of salt into her tiny palm, grinning, cackling maniacally, nibbling away at the stuff while staring directly into the eyes of whichever innocent bystander happens to be there in her vicinity. Apparently pink Himalayan salt is the best kind, but even the small white cardboard bottle of ionized stuff from the dollar store will do just fine.

She gets up to this kind of nonsense on a regular basis – she claims it’s to help with the low blood sugar but I think it’s also very much about receiving a specific kind of attention. Incredulous/confused/mildly disgusted looks, maybe, but it’s still a surefire way of being perceived.

Some of us have gotten used to her antics; it’s amusing to watch her perform in front of unsuspecting victims.

I’m getting exasperated because the amount of salt she has licked off her fingers in the last few days is becoming ridiculous and borderline unwholesome and I don’t think she actually knows when to stop.

I walk into philosophy of mind and there she is, the center of attention, munching on salt. Everyone is laughing. I look up at the ceiling for a second and request patience from anyone who’s available and willing to oblige.

Without pausing to think, without missing a beat – I snag the bottle of salt off her desk as I walk past on the way to my seat at the back of the room. It’s for her own fucking good, anyhow.

It takes her a second to notice. When she does, her eyes go wide in happy disbelief, her jaw drops, she clambers up out of her seat. Everyone around us is laughing. She lunges towards me and the bottle of salt in my hand. I hold it up out of reach – she is very small – then shove the salt behind my back, spinning around so she can’t snatch it out of my hand. Hasty shuffle backwards out of range, dodge a couple of surprisingly powerful blows, careful footwork so as not to tumble off balance. She tackles me with more force than I am ready for and I do not fall down but it’s a close one. Spin around with the full weight of her personage clinging to my back, trying to keep us from crashing into the rows of desks.

The class looks on, properly entertained. By this time the professor – who was an MMA fighter before switching to philosophy – has surreptitiously left the room, carefully suppressing a laugh for professional reasons. His eyes are smiling.

I let her down carefully and surrender the salt. Her eyes are practically glowing with mischievous glee.

I am exceedingly pleased with myself.

I settle into a seat at my desk in the back, a little out of breath, and class begins soon after.