The clock on the
wall counts the seconds, steady as the rhythm of my beating heart, which thumps
wildly within my chest until the glass door to the library opens, propelled by
a gust of wind.
Some new fallen
leaves flutter in, the heavy doors slamming from the draft.
Along with them?
Zeke Daniels.
He shuffles in,
dark gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, black Iowa Wrestling hoodie
pulled up over his head, the university’s bright yellow mascot screen-printed
across the chest. Backpack slung over one shoulder, black athletic flip-flops,
and a pair of black sunglasses perched on the bridge of his strong nose
complete the overall ensemble.
He is utterly…ridiculous.
Unapproachable.
Daunting.
His arrogance
knows no bounds; I can see it in his loose gait, the exaggerated swagger, and
the too-casual way he’s dragging his flip-flops across the cold, marble tile
floor. It’s noisy, irritating, and completely uncalled for.
In the moment,
my mind drifts to his personal life, and I theorize that he listens to heavy
metal music to sooth his foul temperament, drinks his coffee black—as black as
his soul—and his liquor straight up. I imagine once he’s had sex with someone,
they’re never invited back. I go one step further and theorize that they’re
never invited to spend the night at his place, either.
Zeke Daniels
makes his way to a table at the far end of the room, near the periodicals, one
out of the way with plenty of privacy.
Sets his bag
down in one of the four wooden chairs. Flicks on the small study lamp. Plugs
his laptop cord into the base and stands.
Turns.
Our eyes would
have met then were it not for those ludicrous sunglasses. I choose the exact
moment he lifts his gaze to look down at the ground. Busy myself with shuffling
papers on the counter. Count to ten instead of chanting, Please don’t come
over, please don’t come over, please don’t come over…
But luck isn’t
on my side because he most decidedly does.
Makes his way
over like a predator at a pace so deliberate, I’m convinced he’s doing it on
purpose. As if he suspects I’m watching from under my long lashes, dreading his
imminent arrival.
He basks in my
discomfort.
The distance
between us closes, his strides purposeful.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Eight.
Three.
His large hand
reaches up, pushing down the hood of his sweatshirt, his fingertips pinching
the earpiece of his sunglasses and pulling them off his face. My eyes follow
the movements as he folds them closed, hanging them on the neckline of his
hoodie.
His gaze
lingers—those clear gray eyes famous around campus—and finds the shiny silver
bellhop bell perched on the counter with the sign next to it that reads, Ring
for help.
Ding.
The tip of his
forefinger presses down on the small bell.
Ding.
He hits it again,
despite me standing not three feet in front of him.
What an ass.
