Undergraduate / Lunchtime at the Angora: Boston University Supplement Essay [4]

Prompt: "It is three weeks before the start of your freshman year at BU, and you are talking to your new roommate for the first time. Since you are trying to get to know each other, what are a few things that you would want to share about who you are? Please respond in no more than 500 words."

My issue is this: the essay is 514 words, and I am having trouble thinking of what to leave out. Comments concerning its length and content would be much appreciated!

Lunchtime at the Angora

I sit on a brown, faux-leather couch. A styrofoam cup, coated with the remains of frozen strawberry yogurt, rests on the short, magazine-laden table in front of me. It's mid-day, but Jonathon and I are alone in the restaurant, save for two employees, who chat idly in the small alcove by the register. The café is small and inviting. Photographs of downtown Boston adorn the ochre walls, and the smell of warm pita hangs in the air. Jonathon sits left of me, before a window facing the street. In it, a neon sign reading "Open" blinks dimly in the sunlight. He is slouched forward and stares at his yogurt, which he cups in both hands.

"Damn."
"What?"
"I didn't order coffee yogurt; I hate coffee," he groans.
Apart from our phone conversation the previous day, we've hardly spoken at all.
"So-what made you choose this place, anyway?" he asks.
"Angora Café-the name, I suppose. The idea of a restaurant themed around rabbit hair seemed pretty funny to me."
Jonathon straightens himself, finally looking up from the rapidly-melting desert, and raises his eyebrows. "I think they meant the Turkish city, since they're serving Middle Eastern food, and all."

"Oh?" I ask in mock seriousness. "It's just as well. I don't like rabbit hair in my hummus, anyhow."

We both laugh. He sets down the yogurt and leans back in his chair, folding his arms casually. A momentary lull, and he begins again, "Tell me about yourself, Samson-or it is Sam?"

"Either way's fine." I think for a moment, staring through window behind him and into the busy street. As a cyclist nearly collides with an elderly woman in the intersection, I respond,

"I'm from Tucson, Arizona, I like hiking and bicycling, and I want to be an opera singer."
"Is that so?" he smiles. "Well, sir," he begins, feigning self-importance. "I-am a poet!"
"We should get along just fine, then," I say. "Do you know any Tennyson?"
"On either side the river lie/ Long fields of barley and of rye"
I continue, "That clothe the wold and meet the sky."
"By the time this it's over, we all shall die," he finishes, jokingly.
"Is that how it goes?" I ask sarcastically. "Y'know, I like that poem."
"I do, too," he says. "But if we read it all the way through, we'll hit closing hours."
"Perhaps you're right," I say. "I have to admit, I was afraid I'd land a roommate with no sense of humor. Well, Jonathon, I was right-we'll just have to live with each other." I can no longer keep a straight face, and he too begins grinning.

"A toast-to bearable roommates!" he cries. I raise my cup, and he does the same. Mine has long been empty, but when we knock cups together, the yogurt from Jonathon's, now completely a liquid, sloshes over the table. His brow furrows once more. "I never did care for coffee."

"It seems it doesn't care for you, either," I reply. Again, we both break into laughter.