Stopped Short

"Jesus Christ," a deep and bassy voice grunts, "Why don't you watch where you're fucking... going..."

It trails away at the end as he pushes himself back and turns around to look at me and then it trails off as he catches sight of me for the first time.

I'd say he was probably two years older than me, maybe even three. Not a freshman, instead he had the weariness of someone who was regretting their choice to come back to campus during orientation. Being someone who had lived just off campus during all my years attending I was relatively familiar with that feeling, orientation week was geared towards two kinds of people: Freshman and people with real school spirit.

This guy didn't seem to fit into either category.

If I had to guess I'd say he stepped onto campus to grab his books for the year and stopped by the library to get a jump start on classes. He had the look of someone who was already tired before things even started but the weariness of someone who knew he just had to keep getting through.

And, oddly enough, he also had a look that was not altogether unappealing.

Dark hair and quick eyes behind the thicker glasses he wore. A thin and long face with angular features and a narrow nose but full lips. Some scraggle of a beard but not enough to really call it that. Nor cultured enough that it was a five o'clock shadow as an adornment. Instead it was something else.

I think it was genuine.

Every bit of him felt a little like it was cobbled together elements that just might be deliberately chosen for an affectation. A leather jacket, a slung messenger bag, high top shoes and jeans that are stained on one thigh with a splatter of paint.

His shirt dark plaid, small checks, with the top few buttons undone to show off the top of his chest and the somewhat dense mat of hair he had covering his collarbone and flat hard pecs.

All of it working together to affect sort of the idea of a collegian. As if you could crowd source a picture of a person and he would go out and put all the pieces together to become that person but not be genuine except for the fact that he did feel genuine.

Somehow, oddly, he felt so genuine to me.

It was something in the way he stood, pulling his feet under him and rising up slow. In the way he held out a hand to help me stand and the way he gave an awkward little half-smile as if he was terribly sorry for the imposition of getting close enough to touch me and something in the way it felt like he was almost going to apologize for me running into him.

He felt out of place and in place all at the same time and I got the sense that the carelessness of the hair on his jaw or the clothes that he wore spoke to a genuine lack of concern on his part, as if he didn't truly think before he stepped out the door today.

And I was drawn to that. Drawn to the idea that someone could be without having to think about it and besides that I was drawn to the fact that, frankly, he filled out both that shirt he was wearing and those jeans really nicely.

"I'm sorry," I say, so quiet as I bite my bottom lip and bat my eyes up at him, "I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Probably couldn't see over the pile of books you have," he quips, "You know classes don't start until next week, right? I mean I thought I was getting the jump on things but evidently you're putting me to shame."

I smile and I realize that I'm blushing and I turn away, stammering as I start to pick up the books, "Oh they're not for class. They're just things that I wanted to grab because I was really interested in..."

My voice trails away as his hand closes over mine, reaching for the same book at the same time as time stands still and I wonder at the fact that he can make me feel so slight. So small.

So femme.

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