the books we needed. I sniffed, feeling really really sorry for myself. Tendrils of hair had escaped my hood and stuck to my wet face. I tried to brush them back.
A man hurried along the corridor toward me, bent forward over an armload of books and papers. He stopped by the outer door, his head down, and clumsily wrapped his papers in a plastic bag.
His dark raincoat was unbuttoned revealing a flame of red velvet shirt and white jeans above his white leather running shoes. Great head of hair.
He must have felt me watching him because he raised his face and looked straight at me. And smiled.
I knew that smile.
From across a room he would have looked like a student with his light brown hair, arched eyebrows, narrow nose, square jaw, and that line of straight teeth in a smile that made my heart stop. He was average size and moved quickly, giving the impression of walking with his weight over his toes the way dancers do. But it wasn’t only his features that I knew. It was his expression. He had an actor’s face.
When he smiled his whole face moved, so that even the edges of his eyes seemed to lift and a pattern of small lines fanned out beneath the tan, giving away his age as pushing forty. Not that any of that mattered.
All I could think was, that’s Laurence’s smile.
When I stared like a dummy and didn’t smile back, probably had my mouth hanging open, he looked down at his hands, finished wrapping his books, and pushed open the door and left. He hurried along the walk but he didn’t duck his head. The wind lifted his thick hair and the edges of his raincoat, and he bounced with an easy jogging step as though he enjoyed the rain.
I wanted to shout, Laurence!
My throat was so tight, I couldn’t make a sound. Whoever he was, he was the key to something major and I had no choice really. For all I knew, there wasn’t a book collection room in the building, or this was the wrong building, or it would be closed today, anyway. And why chase information that might not be there when I could chase the living, breathing man? I followed him.
It is all very well to argue about free will, as Tom and Cyd were always doing, but what existed in theory could collapse under the fact of circumstance. They’d both agree that I had free will and did not have to follow a strange man. They’d have been wrong. The needle does not choose the magnet. And I was the needle, all right, and to go poetic about it, I was being pulled through the warp of time by a powerful magnet. That man was absolutely out of my past.
The magnet followed changing pathways across the campus, circling the fountain, crossing the plaza, hurrying up a short flight of cement stairs, cutting beneath the bare, gnarled branches of rows of hawthorns. I followed him across lawns and parking lots and finally off campus, kept going along University Way which everyone calls The Ave.
He turned in at a Greek restaurant that was a favorite of Cyd’s. I closed the distance and was maybe ten steps behind him by then, no more.
He dropped his books and bag on a table by the front windows of the restaurant, slipped out of his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then sat down on the chair next to it. I stood at the opposite side of the table and waited for him to look up. When he did he didn’t seem surprised. Instead, he smiled.
Don’t know what he saw besides a woman in a hooded rain jacket dripping water on his table. Nothing in his face indicated that he knew me or even vaguely remembered me.
He said, “Hi.”
I wanted to ask him if I could talk to him but honestly, I don’t go around picking up strange males. And that’s what he thought I was trying to do. Written plain all over that face, that very charming face with the Laurence smile. And jaw line. And the tilt of his head.
My voice stuck in my throat.
“Want to join me?” he asked.
A man hurried along the corridor toward me, bent forward over an armload of books and papers. He stopped by the outer door, his head down, and clumsily wrapped his papers in a plastic bag.
His dark raincoat was unbuttoned revealing a flame of red velvet shirt and white jeans above his white leather running shoes. Great head of hair.
He must have felt me watching him because he raised his face and looked straight at me. And smiled.
I knew that smile.
From across a room he would have looked like a student with his light brown hair, arched eyebrows, narrow nose, square jaw, and that line of straight teeth in a smile that made my heart stop. He was average size and moved quickly, giving the impression of walking with his weight over his toes the way dancers do. But it wasn’t only his features that I knew. It was his expression. He had an actor’s face.
When he smiled his whole face moved, so that even the edges of his eyes seemed to lift and a pattern of small lines fanned out beneath the tan, giving away his age as pushing forty. Not that any of that mattered.
All I could think was, that’s Laurence’s smile.
When I stared like a dummy and didn’t smile back, probably had my mouth hanging open, he looked down at his hands, finished wrapping his books, and pushed open the door and left. He hurried along the walk but he didn’t duck his head. The wind lifted his thick hair and the edges of his raincoat, and he bounced with an easy jogging step as though he enjoyed the rain.
I wanted to shout, Laurence!
My throat was so tight, I couldn’t make a sound. Whoever he was, he was the key to something major and I had no choice really. For all I knew, there wasn’t a book collection room in the building, or this was the wrong building, or it would be closed today, anyway. And why chase information that might not be there when I could chase the living, breathing man? I followed him.
It is all very well to argue about free will, as Tom and Cyd were always doing, but what existed in theory could collapse under the fact of circumstance. They’d both agree that I had free will and did not have to follow a strange man. They’d have been wrong. The needle does not choose the magnet. And I was the needle, all right, and to go poetic about it, I was being pulled through the warp of time by a powerful magnet. That man was absolutely out of my past.
The magnet followed changing pathways across the campus, circling the fountain, crossing the plaza, hurrying up a short flight of cement stairs, cutting beneath the bare, gnarled branches of rows of hawthorns. I followed him across lawns and parking lots and finally off campus, kept going along University Way which everyone calls The Ave.
He turned in at a Greek restaurant that was a favorite of Cyd’s. I closed the distance and was maybe ten steps behind him by then, no more.
He dropped his books and bag on a table by the front windows of the restaurant, slipped out of his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then sat down on the chair next to it. I stood at the opposite side of the table and waited for him to look up. When he did he didn’t seem surprised. Instead, he smiled.
Don’t know what he saw besides a woman in a hooded rain jacket dripping water on his table. Nothing in his face indicated that he knew me or even vaguely remembered me.
He said, “Hi.”
I wanted to ask him if I could talk to him but honestly, I don’t go around picking up strange males. And that’s what he thought I was trying to do. Written plain all over that face, that very charming face with the Laurence smile. And jaw line. And the tilt of his head.
My voice stuck in my throat.
“Want to join me?” he asked.
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