June 6th, 2007

A strange kind of intimacy, to know that someone else is reading the very books you are.

Wednesday 10:45 a.m.,

I was making my way to class from the library when I spied my Literary Gentleman. Several paces ahead he had crossed my path and for some reason, instead of going straight, chose to merge onto the sidewalk superhighway– not the shortest route from point A (music building bike rack) to point B (IV theater).

Patiently pausing for some bikes, I continued on my way, straight, vaguely aware that in taking his unnecessary detour he had set himself behind me. So that's it: a race.

Now our paths were parallel and when I chanced to glance over saw him almost directly across from me, striding along.

We continued, dodging our respective pedestrians, commenting idly to our lone selves, "look at the ridiculous strut!" ... "stupid girl on the wrong side of the sidewalk" ... "who can love that one's shrill yammering?"

On. More obstacles. Then who emerged to intercept my course but the professor to whose class I went, in conversation with another student. I kept behind them; he doesn't know me. Oh but watch out: there is where the detour reconnects, and he has no qualms about joining, with a wave, his fellow well-versed academics. The three of them walked; I aware of them and him, he aware of me, his companions not aware of me. They cut across a patch of young and fragile grass: not the design of an obedient superhighway-walker. I crossed the parking lot at a slightly wider angle than they, self-consciously.

Something happened between one end of the lot and the other to make it the case that when they next appeared, he was walking several paces from the professor and student. We each gravitated toward IV Theater. He chose to use the closest door, which is lower than the ground but wheelchair-accessible: in his doubling-back on the ramp we glanced at and passed each other.

I went in the back/main door because I like to scope out my lecture halls. Through the glass door and through the rear left door and down the aisle toward the relative front of the too-big room. Meanwhile he had strode across the front of the rows and turned up my aisle. I smiled to myself and whoever watched: this was a dance, sure and picturesque. He walked up toward the back and I walked down toward the front; he sat; I passed him and sat, two rows ahead. We were pretty, I refected.

To amuse myself I half waited for him to come sit by me. He did. a polite seat between us. We had a first conversation. Then he said "I think I'm expected to sit over there" and escaped behind me, then the professor started talking. Near the end of class I noticed that he sat alone. I distractedly wondered about this, then went up to turn in my late paper, then left and didn't look for him.


I might mention that this was the last day of class. oh tragedy.