Selcouth, in truth, was the only word that could be used to describe him. He was perched on the edge of his seat like a bird ready to take flight, foot tapping against the pegs of the stool as if he couldn’t wait to get in the air. Long fingers pecked feverishly at the keys of a worn-out typewriter, eyes—which seemed to contain colors not yet named—darted to and fro, and breaths escaped quietly from his halfway parted lips like infinitesimal whispers of his innermost thoughts.

His hair, however inconspicuous it had seemed at the beginning, was burned into her mind like sunlight on a summer’s day. White-blonde strands glimmering in the blinding rays coming through the window; they glowed like a dangerously hot fire, and she really couldn’t help but stare. In the same way that humans cannot look away from a train wreck, and cannot resist that which is most harmful to them, she wanted to reach out and touch the soft whiteness with just the tips of her fingers. But she, again like most people, was scared of being burnt and so she tucked her hand into her pocket and forcefully turned away.

But he was still visible from the very corner of her eyes. His long, gangly legs—covered by a layer of pewter corduroy—spilled out over the stool, his oxford-clad feet resting lightly on the dark mahogany floor. His sweater—half tucked into his pants and half hanging out messily—was of a cream color, thickly knit, and showed only the hint of a blue collar peeking through at the base his neck. Casual as he looked and frantic as he seemed, he was captivating.

She, however, had work to do. And so, with fierce determination, she tilted her face away from the stunning creature beside her and began.