You arrive at your Data Structures class.

Data Structures is located halfway across campus from Algorithms, for reasons you can't fathom. Wouldn't it have made sense to keep classes so obviously related to one another in reasonably the same location? you think. It's probably some devious plan to make sure we computer nerds get enough exercise. Still, if you have to walk, this is a nice place to do it; although it's still quite chilly, and there's no snow on the ground -- just the grayish-brown of grass that has seen quite enough of winter, thank you -- the sky is a brilliant blue, with little wisps of clouds floating across it, water vapor that has no particular place to be or time to get there. It's pleasant, almost idyllic, if only it would warm up a bit. You watch your breath condense and curl as you walk, losing yourself in the twists and curls it makes as it dissipates.

You arrive at class with a few minutes to spare, and enter through one of the doors in the back. Data Structures is in a room similar to Algorithms, in that it is rather dingy and small, hit by fluorescent troffers in a particle-board grid drop ceiling. Unlike the Algorithms classroom, there are no glass-topped tables here, just your typical, functional utility tables, arranged in three rows of two each. The tables in the last row are somewhat shorter, in order to keep plenty of room clear around the doors (fire regulations, you know), so the room can sit sixteen in all. As usual, you sit in the back row, right-hand side, keeping with your do not draw attention to myself mantra. You log into your computer, which is practically a carbon-copy of the one in your last class; no doubt the college got some sort of academic deal from the vendor. They aren't exactly powerhouses, but they get the job done.

You're usually the only person sitting at this two-person table, as the class is small enough that there's usually plenty of room to spread out. Today, however, is different, as someone pulls out the chair to the left of you, and takes a seat. She's slightly shorter and a fair bit chubbier than you, with straight, blond hair that extends down slightly past her shoulders. A vibrant streak of purple runs through her hair, just above her right eyebrow all the way down to the end behind her back. Like you, she wears glasses, but hers are more delicate, not as tall and noticeably thinner than yours. Like you, she wears jeans, but decidedly _un_like you, above the waist she wears a gray cami tank top, with thin shoulder straps, and a V-neck trimmed with rather elaborate lighter-gray lace that plunges down enough to reveal an impressive amount of her pale, almost iridescent bounty, and the cleavage that separates it. Beneath that is a simple black bra; which you only know is there due to its visible straps, wider than those of the top. Finally, a silver chain adorns her neck, upon which hangs a gemstone pendant that sits directly between her breasts. This is definitely not a girl who has trouble with the attention of others.

You've been taking all the details of her appearance in for, oh, about fifteen seconds now, when you suddenly remember that the name for what you're doing is called "gawking," and that it is generally considered impolite in modern society. In particular, you've been staring at that pendant, and how it adds such a vibrant splash of color to what is otherwise a totally monochromatic outfit. You realize that's probably the point -- to draw attention -- but it doesn't change the fact that you've been fixated on this girl's boobs for seven seconds now. Wait, no... eight.

You quickly turn away, cheeks hot with guilt, hoping that maybe she didn't notice your indiscretion. After another few seconds, you tentatively glance back at her, and find her looking right back at you -- not angry, but bemused.

"Like what you see?" she toys with you, in a flirty voice. Then, seeing you start to tense up slightly with panic, she breaks into a genuine smile and giggles. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. You just looked so uncomfortable, I had to have a little fun." She glances down at her own chest. "Honestly, don't worry about it," she continues. "I wouldn't be wearing this if I was concerned with people staring at me. Besides, it's a hell of a lot of fun to tease folks."

Disarmed a bit by her cheerful, ebullient attitude, you start wracking your brain for examples of small talk. What even is small talk? you think. What sort of stuff is friendly and unimportant to discuss? You've never really been able to grasp how to distinguish between which conversation is "small" and which is deeply meaningful, which is probably why you're a veritable fountain of trivia yet have trouble remembering details like peoples' names and birthdays.

Focusing on the last thing you were thinking about, you haltingly ask, "Is...isn't that a bit cold for winter?" Oh, yeah, good one Sam, you think. The first words you say to this cute, bubbly, flirty girl next to you are to question her choice of wardrobe as though you're her father. That'll go over really well.

But, to your surprise, she laughs again. "Yeah!" she agrees. "It totally is! Which is why I have that." She points over to the coat rack behind the two of you, where what appears to be an extremely fluffy and warm anorak is hung.

Wait a second, the stupid trivia portion of your brain pipes up, we have a coat rack here? I've been hanging my coat off the back of my chair!

Not important right now, you reply.

Out loud, you simply reply, "Oh."

She shrugs in response. "These classrooms always feel so hot to me, so I dress light, and make up for it with that behemoth when I'm outside." It makes sense; more than a dozen computers and monitors put out a fair amount of heat, and you have to admit you've often been a bit uncomfortable in the labs.

"Oh, by the way," she continues, "my name is Emily." She extends her hand, and you grab it, shaking politely.

"Sam," you reply.