Curiosity killed the cat.
I was just looking.
Sneaking glances from under the cover of my lashes: a little foliage curtain of sooty black thistle shielding curious brown eyes. I was uncomfortably aware of my face for someone trying to be nondescript: were my lips too loose? Too pursed like I was imagining him kissing me? (I was.) Did my eyes flutter casually from the pages of my book or was it forced, too obviously did they focus on his lovely face? Did I remember to scan my eyes left to right on the page, drop to the next line of text and repeat? Damn. I’m just staring at the same words over and over.
I brought my pencil to my lips, thought better of chewing it, resorted to a single little nip that dented the metal ring around its chalky eraser and felt silly. I let it slide through my fingers, misjuding the tiny spear’s traectory. It hit the hardcover of my closed text book, standing upright as I tried to put my hand down. Shit. The pencil connected to the soft underbelly of my wrist. I cradled my broken skin, noticing I had destroyed yet another sweater this week. I tucked my whole fist inside the sleeve and wiggled my pinky through the small graphite hole. I had successfully wedged it in mid-knuckle when I realized I was stuck, my shoulder pulled free of the sweater I looked like a reneagde toddler trying to dress (or undress) myself helplessly. I looked up, knowing this time that my face was undoubtedly stupid.
Cook was laughing, striding toward me with him hands grasping his stomach dramatically, feigning teary eyes from my hilarity. He freed my little finger, now purple, and I shrugged my shoulder back into the warmth of my pencil-ravaged sweater.
“We match!” I spread my palms wide, wiggling my fingers like jazz hands to expose the devastation of my most recent act of clumsiness.
He laughed. I thought better of my gesture and buried my face behind those shaky fingers; watching him from behind half-hidden eyes, the pads of my phalanges grazing my bottom lashes. I darted a poke at his stomach, “Don’t laugh at me you goon!”
He stopped, feigning gratuity like he was mocking an acceptance speech, “So you’ve asked about me!” His smile was genuine.
“I—” darted a look over his shoulder, a quick check to see if Tom—
Cook followed my gaze, from my periperal vision I saw him deflate. I looked down, busying myself with rolling up my damaged sleeve.
“You asked about me?” Less friendly this time, more desperate. Just a hit of uncertainty in his usally boisterous tone.
I set my jaw, honest but apologetic. I met his glare with a shrug, “I asked about…”
He cut me off with a short laugh, his usual smile returning forcibly. I reached out as if to poke him again and he relaxed. Cook caught the corner of my sleeve and held my wrists prisoner against his stomach, fumbling to tickle me while I shrieked. He helped me cuff the torn sleeve and placed my hands across the pile of textbooks in my lap, forcing the fingers of my right hand into the “thumbs up” position.
He returned the gesture with a wincing smile and left, picking his way through the crowded study. I craned my head, pretending like I needed to stretch my neck, lolling it to one side to watch his expression as he went. Not two steps from where I stood his smile faded to a rejected sigh.
