PART ONE: He picked himself up off the ground. His grubby college sweatshirt hung around his lank body. The name had peeled off due to constant use. He was as thin as a pencil (excessive amounts of Ramen didn‘t help). A two-inch long pencil was tucked into his pocket, the big one in the sweatshirt where you could shove your hands in if you were cold. It fell out tinkling as it hit the wood floor of the library. Rifling through the philosophy section again, he’d been searching for books about Aristotle. He maneuvered up a healthy armful relating to the famed Greek. As he plodded down the stairs to the check-out desk, he noticed people were staring at him. Again. They always did. The fact that he normally wore his too-big sweatshirt and glasses and carried large amounts of (God forbid!) non-fiction books didn’t help. Also, today, he was wearing his extra pair of glasses (he’d sat on the others) that used to be his fathers. They magnified his eyes, the lenses covering his cheekbones. He carted his stack of stuff and placed it on the counter. Behind the large, unyielding chasm sat an unassuming, bespectacled woman. Her long blond hair fanned out in to the folds of her violet dress. She sat on a high stool, one leg crossed over the other, her booted toe pointing at the ceiling. Her chin, cupped in her palm, pointed out; her back curved over as she read a paperback novel. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. She looked up, smiled and tugged over his books. “Hi,” he stammered. Since when did he speak to anyone, his brain asked. He tried to think philosophically: what would Descartes do in a situation like this? I think, therefore I am. Not “hi” followed by what would probably be a long, awkward pause and wary stare. (Women were always doing it to him) Oh, this was not good.
PiroFanMongoose · Sat Dec 29, 2007 @ 05:26pm · 0 Comments |