My fingers involuntarily curl around my worn geometry textbook, a reflex after twenty years, even though I haven't opened its faded cover since college. That morning I watched an art student, her hair a matted tangle of curls, as she quietly sketched an imperfect still life: a mangled paper towel roll balanced on a wobbly vase. She glanced down, her pencil poised mid-sentence, and our eyes briefly touched; I felt an odd pang, reminiscent of my failed attempts at drawing perspective in elementary school. Later, while browsing a used bookstore, I ran into that same artist, her drawing in hand now a neat sketch in a journal; I couldn't bring myself to greet her, lost in our fleeting moment of mutual understanding.
I now occasionally glance out the window during afternoon lectures, half-expecting her, the paper towel roll propped in my mind forever.
I now occasionally glance out the window during afternoon lectures, half-expecting her, the paper towel roll propped in my mind forever.
0