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I look up. He is still sitting there, still reading, still silent. Alright, I think to myself, why don't I just go now? He's not doing anything, not very busy, no one's around, I should just go. I look up one more time to establish my route when he looks up at the same time. Eye contact is made. For a short, fleeting moment I am looking into these empty haunting vessels, being passed off as eyes, surrounded by these long black canopy lashes; eyes that would have burnt holes in my retinas, had I not looked away within 1/25 of a second. I look back down at my book. He saw me, now what? I can't walk over now; an exploitation of my character has already been established in that one too-short look. I want to look up again, cast my gaze on him and not falter. I want to size him up and let him size me up. I want to take him in, his mouth, his hair, his skin, if only it will save me the trouble of walking over to him, for maybe he would walk over to me.
I look past my book at the offensive orange carpet and think what a disgrace it is to be reading Green Eggs and Ham when I'm sure I should be reading Romeo and Juliet. (Even a six-year-old can fall in love.)