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 her left-hand index finger.
My eyes focus back at her pale white face. Her eyes blink slowly and her long black lashes flutter, lethargically. 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, pursing her lips and sipping.
Hurray. She has turned the page. She flips through, 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.