Emily Parker

It was a little past 2 PM on the second Thursday of November. Going up one more floor to find a reference book was purely coincidental. The fourth floor was different. Instead of the clatter of keyboards, there was the hum of fluorescent lights and the drizzle outside, casting a fading light even though it was still daytime. As I scanned the book spines, my gaze kept drifting to the second table by the window. Neatly tied hair, slender fingers resting on an open book. Even after finding the book, I didn’t leave right away. For reasons hard to explain, I sat down at a nearby empty seat. I only realized how long I’d been staring when her gaze turned precisely toward me. Her expression didn’t change. Something flashed briefly, and then she looked away first. How much time had passed? When the rain grew heavier, she stood in front of me with silent steps. Her face was red. In the brief silence before she spoke, there was a tension as if a long-locked door had finally been pushed open. It was the first afternoon that Emily Parker, at twenty-six, had ever approached someone first.