Twenty people
study in the Hut at Gilman Hall, yet only one pair of eyes looks up when I
enter. She quickly glances back at her two-hundred page book (just looking at
the sheer width), her face blank, her body slouching, a Pura Vida cup on the
armrest. A standing lamp lights the pages in her book. Her hazel eyes are lined
by smoky black eye make up, her black boots paired with paint splattered
jean-like leggings. Her ebony locks are dyed blonde. Or she may have dyed her
blonde roots black. I do not know. She has chipped metallic green nail polish
on all her fingers except on her left-hand index finger.
My eyes focus back
at her pale white face. Her eyes blink lethargically and her long black lashes
flutter slowly. She hasn’t turned a page in the five minutes I have been observing
her. While keeping her eyes on the pages, she grasps at the air. She looks up
and grabs the drink. She purses her lips and sips at her drink. Hurray. She has
turned the page. She flips through the pages while keeping her index finger on
the page she is on. She sighs. I look around and I do not make eye contact with
anyone else. Everyone else seems intensely absorbed in whatever subject they
are reading or writing. I look up and she is looking at me.
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