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The professor shut the door, startling her out of her daily mid-morning reverie. The one that always revolved around the boy who apparently enjoyed chai, or Gabe, as she had taken to calling him. It wasn't his real name. She found the bland moniker given to him by his parents completely blasphemous in relation to his appearance, and had decided to christen him with an appropriate nickname. Gabe, short for Gabriel. A heavenly name for a heavenly creature. The professor began his usual monotony-soaked lecture, forcing her to pretend to pay attention for the time being. He turned his back to write something on the board, and she snatched up her pen and scribbled down her thoughts in the few moments she had. He sits one row across and three seats up from me. I've studied his back and head so arduously that I could draw it from memory, if it weren't for that whole "lack of artistic talent" thing. She chuckled to herself, thinking how proud her high school English teacher would have been of her for using the word "arduously." His hair is lovely. I don't know how else to describe it and even that word simply can't do it justice. Blonde and shaggy, it falls just below his chin in layers and rests on the nape of his neck in the back. And you know what else? It always looks just right, no matter what the weather. In a way, I'm insanely jealous. My hair will never come that close to perfection. She patted her own brown locks self-consciously, cursing the humidity of the room and the stupidity of following her mother's nagging advice to use hairspray. Meanwhile, the professor droned on about World War I. She set her pen down for a moment and let her calm brown eyes stray one row across and three desks up. Gabe. He sure knew how to dress. Most of her journals consisted of her description of whatever outlandish ensemble he'd chosen to wear on that particular day. Today's entry would be no exception. Today he's wearing a simple black t-shirt with the words "Hysteria, Bloody Hysteria" printed in bold silver English script across the chest. It doesn't make much sense out of context, but really, what does? The shirt is faded and slightly wrinkled. I bet he does his own laundry. His jeans are washed out and worn, |
the dark denim color having been chased away by years of laundering. A coal-black leather belt littered with silver studs keeps them hanging precariously on his hips. They cling to his skinny frame the way a child clings to a mother's hand - yearning to let go but knowing it's safer to hold on. His shoes are plain black and white ADIDAS, the laces stained with years of dirt and frayed at the ends. She was forced to close her journal and tuck it underneath her history book as the professor began to walk about the room as he lectured. To deter students like her from not paying attention, no doubt. Her fingers itched for freedom as he ambled up the aisle past her desk. Gabe swung sideways in his seat to watch the professor, and her chest thumped slightly as she planned what to write next. Locking her fingers together, she rested her chin on the tops of her hands and studied him. What would it feel like to run her fingers through that silky blond hair? It was always drifting into his face, a fact that she actually found quite irritating. She wanted to see his face, his gently sloping nose and chin. Some days she had to resist the urge to walk up the aisle and tuck the baby-fine strands back behind his ears. The professor returned to the front of the room, and her pen returned to her hand. His eyes are the bluest things I've ever seen. They remind me of a blue crayon I used to draw with when I was young, my favorite drawing utensil. The wax from that crayon flowed smoothly onto the page like a light blue waterfall. She had cried when that crayon broke, but she was only seven at the time and didn't understand the concept of "Your father will buy you a new box tomorrow, dear." She did, however, understand the concept of sentimental value. So when I see those spring-sky eyes, I can't help but think of that particular crayon, and it attracts me even more to him, if that were possible. A faint rustling from a diagonal direction caught her attention. She halted her pen and raised her head, watching intently as Gabe stood up gracefully and walked to the other side of the room toward the pencil sharpener. She sought a quick remedy when her view of his frame was blocked. Her old wooden desk, with its unflattering graffiti scratched across the top, squeaked in exasperation as she scooted it over to get a better look. The way he walks is fascinating, and completely unlike any other male I've seen. It's almost as if he's not even walking, but just gliding, his sneaker-clad feet barely whispering across the tiles. His arms, like his legs, are long and lithe. Even something as mundane as sharpening a pencil seems beautiful and ethereal when he does it. |
