meet you.”
dane
My nervousness has all but left. Just having her here in front of me subdues me—I can’t explain it. And the touch of her hand, she didn’t resist like she had yesterday, but of course she was in pain and likely blamed me for being careless. Yet, I don’t even think now that she would’ve thought that—just an accident.
I release her hand; the softness gliding off of my fingertips.
There’s no reason to tell her I came back yesterday, or that I already knew her name.
A light breeze blushes past us and I can smell the scent of her perfume. She reaches and tucks her hair loosely behind her ear that’s brushed over her cheek. It’s very pretty, and the auburn strands catch the sunlight. I turn away briefly, not wanting to reveal myself, and pretend to look down the sidewalk at the people slowly starting to cluster around, and then back up at the front of the building.
“Are you familiar with the biology building?” she asks, following my gaze.
Her voice, the way she had looked yesterday had haunted me and I had all but forgotten how gentle it was. “Only a little,” I say, recovering and still not wanting to divulge that I took a self-tour and found her picture, only to be escorted out by the janitor. “Are you a graduate student. . . in biology?” About half of my classes are taught by one, who’s only a couple of years older than me, so I don’t think it’s too obvious asking—given the fact that I knew and couldn’t think my way around it too well right now.
“Yes, this is my first year here, in graduate school,” she says it with curiosity laced subtly in her words. “It’s really the only building that I have to be at on campus.”
I don’t know if it was intended, but that last part sounded like she wanted me to keep it is as future reference—probably I’m reading a little into things. There’s such an urgency in me—hell.
I know I have to speak. I can’t just stay standing here absorbing the good feeling from being near her.
“Do you have a class here. . . in the biology building?” she asks hesitantly, before I find my words.
“No, my major’s in business. I’m in my third year.” She seems to linger at that.
“I should be in my senior year—well, fourth year,” she says. I can tell she’s getting a little nervous. Her arms are lightly folded with the strap of her bag in the crease of her elbow and she’s slowly rubbing one of her forearms. I give her a moment to say more, sensing she’s trying. “I took a lot of courses my last year of high school, and stayed enrolled during the summers in undergraduate.” It seems hard for her even now to stay talking long, but she’s not trying to leave from the conversation—not yet, and it makes me feel glad for her—glad for me. She should be in her fourth year here. That makes her around 21, 22.
“Yeah, there are a lot of people that finish early.” I feel secure again as I watch her; like I did sitting beside her on the bench yesterday. There’s such a need to her—an unfamiliarity for her. It’s like she needs me to be guiding us along, and it makes me want to say something comforting letting her know that I will. “I didn’t have time for any extra classes, though I think I would’ve liked that. Track took me out of most of my afternoon classes the second half of my high school years. It was the bigger focus.” Someone walks past closely behind me. The sidewalk is starting to fill a little more. I step nearer her, moving out of the way. She doesn’t step back though herself, putting more distance between us as we were a second ago. I feel the excitement in me swell, but I know I can’t blunder now. I have such control over everything else, focus, discipline, even getting good grades—I need to be able to control what’s surfacing in me, or no doubt it will send her off like a frightened kitten.
“I think it’s great you run track,” she allows quietly. I can’t take enough
dane
My nervousness has all but left. Just having her here in front of me subdues me—I can’t explain it. And the touch of her hand, she didn’t resist like she had yesterday, but of course she was in pain and likely blamed me for being careless. Yet, I don’t even think now that she would’ve thought that—just an accident.
I release her hand; the softness gliding off of my fingertips.
There’s no reason to tell her I came back yesterday, or that I already knew her name.
A light breeze blushes past us and I can smell the scent of her perfume. She reaches and tucks her hair loosely behind her ear that’s brushed over her cheek. It’s very pretty, and the auburn strands catch the sunlight. I turn away briefly, not wanting to reveal myself, and pretend to look down the sidewalk at the people slowly starting to cluster around, and then back up at the front of the building.
“Are you familiar with the biology building?” she asks, following my gaze.
Her voice, the way she had looked yesterday had haunted me and I had all but forgotten how gentle it was. “Only a little,” I say, recovering and still not wanting to divulge that I took a self-tour and found her picture, only to be escorted out by the janitor. “Are you a graduate student. . . in biology?” About half of my classes are taught by one, who’s only a couple of years older than me, so I don’t think it’s too obvious asking—given the fact that I knew and couldn’t think my way around it too well right now.
“Yes, this is my first year here, in graduate school,” she says it with curiosity laced subtly in her words. “It’s really the only building that I have to be at on campus.”
I don’t know if it was intended, but that last part sounded like she wanted me to keep it is as future reference—probably I’m reading a little into things. There’s such an urgency in me—hell.
I know I have to speak. I can’t just stay standing here absorbing the good feeling from being near her.
“Do you have a class here. . . in the biology building?” she asks hesitantly, before I find my words.
“No, my major’s in business. I’m in my third year.” She seems to linger at that.
“I should be in my senior year—well, fourth year,” she says. I can tell she’s getting a little nervous. Her arms are lightly folded with the strap of her bag in the crease of her elbow and she’s slowly rubbing one of her forearms. I give her a moment to say more, sensing she’s trying. “I took a lot of courses my last year of high school, and stayed enrolled during the summers in undergraduate.” It seems hard for her even now to stay talking long, but she’s not trying to leave from the conversation—not yet, and it makes me feel glad for her—glad for me. She should be in her fourth year here. That makes her around 21, 22.
“Yeah, there are a lot of people that finish early.” I feel secure again as I watch her; like I did sitting beside her on the bench yesterday. There’s such a need to her—an unfamiliarity for her. It’s like she needs me to be guiding us along, and it makes me want to say something comforting letting her know that I will. “I didn’t have time for any extra classes, though I think I would’ve liked that. Track took me out of most of my afternoon classes the second half of my high school years. It was the bigger focus.” Someone walks past closely behind me. The sidewalk is starting to fill a little more. I step nearer her, moving out of the way. She doesn’t step back though herself, putting more distance between us as we were a second ago. I feel the excitement in me swell, but I know I can’t blunder now. I have such control over everything else, focus, discipline, even getting good grades—I need to be able to control what’s surfacing in me, or no doubt it will send her off like a frightened kitten.
“I think it’s great you run track,” she allows quietly. I can’t take enough
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