The Red Shorts

Some days this blog will function like an expanded Twitter, so that I'll write about things as they come up instead of a "Dear Diary, here's what happened over the course of the day etc etc" format. Today is one of those days.

I am not working for money today, just to study. I go down to the second floor so that I don't have cell phone service and because it's warmer. I see a couple of people I know but pretend not to notice. I don't feel like making the first move and need to concentrate on H (one subject of my thesis).

NE here. It's been a while. I had him for a class once and it was a great class, but anytime I tried to say something insightful, it came out as a lot of stuttering accompanied by blushing and then "Er, I don't know." He would look at me with an expression of "Oh, God" while I spoke and then would continue on as if nothing had happened. I think I appreciated this more than if he were to actually respond to what I said. I find him to be very collegiately attractive; he is only just 30, I believe, and already completed his PhD. The streak of grey at the front of his hairline - the punctum - is a testament to this.

We made eye contact and neither of us acknowledged it. It's how things are at Avery. No one should be friendly. Save that for the sidewalk.

He goes to print out a document. Someone approaches him, and they start talking; NE absent-mindedly leans against the printer avery200a. Just then a girl wearing a puffy jacket, silver kitten heels, and 90-degree-weather-short red shorts (no leggings, stockings, tights, or underwear, probably) slides directly in front of NE and says with her ass to him, "Excuse me, are you printing something?" He jumps back before her red shorts get all over his suit and says, "Oh, no, go right ahead." He has a speech impediment with R's that is only slightly noticeable but is equal parts sexy and confusing because he is 30.

The boy who always wears a stripped button-down and American Apparel glasses reading his Engels, again. Strand bookmark, natch. He looks up and around the room more frequently than he looks at the pages.

The man reading across from me - older, perhaps 60s - is literally holding a large text on Bosch right up against his face; both of the covers have completely enveloped his face up to his ears. This I attribute either to a library fetish or that he is trying to recreate "The Garden of Earthly Delights" on some kind of metaphysical level and make out with the painting. Sure enough, when he puts the book down, it's that work. He removes Chapstick from his pocket and reapplies it. I am watching him the whole time but he does not notice.

I go outside to have a bit of a bagel. I see J enter the library. I love J! I looked up his name once out of curiosity and it means "just(ice)" in Danish. Every day he wears a black tailored suit and white button-down, always crisply ironed. He slicks his hair back and looks like a much less pummeled version of Adrian Brody. The way he addresses you at the door he does it in a manner that is like blowing a kiss. He shows his ID every single time as if it is no hassle, which is a respectful gesture.

I go back to my seat; the man across from me has evidently set his watch alarm while he naps on Bosch, and the alarm sounds. He jerks up, turns it off, and reads, his face too, too close to the pages.