conversation at work. {him}

As I stride past the room, our eyes meet, as if she had been expecting me all along. It takes me a moment to realise it really is her, but it is Wednesday after all, and she is always here on Wednesdays. I retrace my steps and make my way to the door. She looks up from the notebook in which she had been writing. I can vaguely remember her, ten years younger, walking through these halls and corridors in uniform – she used to write back then as well.

I am once again struck by her ethereal appearance. A headband is keeping her straight long hair away from her face, forcing it to fall down her back like a calm cascade of dark gold. There is a shy smile on her lips, as if she wanted to smile more, but for some reason was not letting herself to. There are no hard lines, no frowns on her face, giving her a very calm, innocent and almost childlike air which contradicts her unique resilience and wisdom that can be picked up on if one looks in her green eyes deep enough.

“How was your student?” I inquire as she slowly puts the lid back on the pen.

“Oh, not too bad … some weeks are better than others …” Her eyes dart around the room and cross mine every once in a while, like butterflies that take flight again as soon as they land on a flower. “And how is your exam marking?” She asks me, readjusting her position on the couch to better face me. I see that her cheeks have gone a little pink.

“It’s all done – but now I have to do all the reports.”

She nods and looks down, though there is still the shadow of a smile on her face. Poor girl, she is clearly very nervous, and I wonder why. How can she comfortably confess so much on a piece of paper, yet remain so utterly quiet, secretive, and perhaps as a consequence, all the more captivating, when in person?

“I am playing in the concert next week,” she eventually says, turning back to me.

“So I heard.” Her eyebrows raise. “I will be playing the organ.” Her eyebrows raise even higher, her shy smile widens.

“Oh really? I am excited!” As soon as she says this, she looks away again, realising that her words reveal a depth of feeling I know she always tries to hide.

I wish I could tell her it was okay to feel, even those things she feels for me; and that she shouldn’t doubt herself so much, because it is really quite a pleasant experience talking with and to her. I wish she knew and believed what a lovely person she is. Yet I feel unable to pronounce such things, no matter how frequently they pass my mind, each and every time I see her. All I can do is be kind to her, and hope that my kindness gradually translates all those things I want to tell her.

“Well, it was nice to see you,” I offer as a good-bye.

Her green eyes again find mine – I cannot read them, they are like a whirlpool of emotion.

“You too.”

_{{writing about myself from someone else’s perspective … fun! Don’t know how much of the character’s thoughts & feelings I have guessed accurately!}}