A J.Crew clad gal casually sits on a weather-worn wooden bench in the Quad. A book is open on her lap, but she’s not really reading it. She’s preoccupied by the beautiful atmosphere: the ancient old Gothic architecture, the ringing bells of Gasson, and the stream of suits flowing in and out of Fulton.
Students walk by on their way to O’Neill, but their faces are a blur.
Except for one.
The crowd clears and a sweaty plex-comer emerges. He’s wearing lacrosse shorts, a backwards cap, and a BC sweatshirt.
A small wave. A glance. He pulls his earphone bud from his ear, smiles crookedly.
A conversation ensues. They hooked up last weekend. It was casual—a no big deal thing. He tells her he had fun. She giggles flirtatiously. There’s no awkwardness and they talk freely.
But there’s a twist—emotions are in the air. A static chemistry establishes itself between them. With a backwards glance, he begins to walk away.
Some hesitation and he blurts: “What are you doing Thursday?”
There’s a moment of confusion. She’s thrown off-guard. She’s not used to being asked this sort of question, especially not in this way.
“Nothing, I guess” is her answer.
Nervously backing away: “Let me know if you want to get dinner,” he says.
Shock, but a quick recovery and a smile. Yeah, she thinks. “That sounds like fun,” she answers.
She sits at a high table in Hillside, a latte at her side. A tired friend sits across from her, recounting her day.
But she’s not listening to her friend. There’s a buzz—a text. He’s coming by to see her. The door opens and her face lights up. In he strides, spots her, smiles crookedly.
Their hands find each other. Her left in his right. He says hello to her friend. A care-free conversation begins. But he’s anxious.
“I gotta run to the plex.”
And with a last longing glance, he breaks away from her. But not for long. She’ll see him soon again.