I am reading my book so intensely that I’ve stopped processing the words. Purely robotic. I slowly inch my book closer and closer to my face, and watch all the words quickly turn into smudgy, insignificant beings. I have this sense. The one where you know someone is looking at you, but you don’t know why, or who. I’ve determined the Who, and my explanation for the why? Is probable.

She is still staring. Clearly unaware, that I am quite aware of her stare. Her piercing eyes continue to burn a small hole through my now not-so-interesting book. I’ve lost my focus. My book is so close to my face that my nose fits perfectly into the centered binding. I drag my book slowly down my face, revealing my eyes. I peer over the edge of the book, and lock eyes with the Who. (Not The Who, you know the Who of which I am speaking . . .)

I watch her eyes quickly avert, and then her head swiftly look around the room. Pretending it didn’t happen. My insides start to sizzle with frustration.
As if
that Who,
could pretend
it didn’t happen . . .