Pale Fire

I admired her from afar until one night this Spring when I bumped into her in the basement of a brownstone near campus. The house where environmentalists and tattoo artists lived was throwing a party, and we were both in attendance. She was tall and elegant in a long brown skirt, and her lacy cream tank top draped off her shoulders, the thin straps teasing her collarbones. I felt drawn to them—I wanted to trace them with my fingers. I watched her from afar. She conversed with one of the tattoo artists who lived in the house, nodding attentively and grinning as he showed her the latest project on his forearm. She must have felt my gaze because she turned my way. When we made eye contact, time stopped.

She made her way over to me a few minutes later, but we shared nothing more than pleasantries and small talk that night. Since then, our meetings have become frequent and our conversations familiar. It isn’t anything serious, though. I run into her in the library, see her at the dining hall, and grab quick coffees when we both have time after class.

Tonight is the first time we are meeting after dark. It is Friday, and it will be evident to her that I am tired from the school week. The circles under my eyes have darkened from hours of dry academic readings, and I am not dressed to impress in my mustard hoodie and baggy jeans. But I know she will understand—she works even harder than I do and sleeps even less.

This lateness is not typical of Savannah. So when she bursts through the lecture hall door, laptop and loose papers held tightly against her chest, honey-colored bangs stuck to her forehead, I am surprised.

“Hey! Sorry I’m so late,” she says.

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