After Life

10

The next half an hour passed in an awkward, tense, silence. At least for me it was. I practically hid behind my laptop, reading and rereading the same text over and over again. I kept trying to make notes on the things I read about the library, little ideas on what would be a possible subject for my assignment. But nothing I read and nothing I wrote seemed to make any sense when I read it back over.

I was hyper aware of Harry sitting across from me, even though he had said nothing since turning his attention to his work. His head was down, his eyes on his textbook. The only real part of him I could see was his wavy brown hair, which he would push back from his eyes intermittently. He was taking notes on occasion, his fingers gripping a pen in a way that had me biting my lip. He had a small cross tattoo at the base of his thumb, and for some reason, I found it intriguing. Yet another part of him that had me asking questions in my mind about what compelled him to do the things he did. I don’t know why, but I was fascinated with his hands.

Any time I would realize that I was staring at him, I would pop my head back behind the safety of my laptop screen, closing my eyes and mentally scolding myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? It wasn’t like he was the first attractive man I had ever seen. One of the perks of working in photography was the ability to photograph beautiful people and get paid for it. Or, at least, have the opportunity presented to you thanks to your college courses and professors. But for some reason, I was drawn to Harry. I couldn’t really place what it was, but it was there. And it became increasingly obvious to me the longer we sat across from each other in this weighted silence.

What was strange to me was that I wasn’t thinking of him in a sexual nature, like you would think you would when being so compelled towards a person. It wasn’t that flushing, heart racing, stomach tensing feeling you get when the boy you like is near. This was different. This was an intrigue, a fascination, about him. About why he felt the way he did about having his photo taken. About why he had the tattoos he did, his arms currently bare to me thanks to the black tshirt he wore. His arms were more decorated than I had originally thought in our first meeting, and I couldn’t help but wonder what each meant. Usually, when someone got a tattoo, it had a personal meaning. So, of course, I had to wonder what his reasons for each were.

My eyes roamed over his arm as it lay draped across the table. I studied the anchor tattoo on his forearm, again my eyes being pulled to the tiny cross on his hand. For some reason, I liked it best. I wasn’t a religious person by any means, but I was drawn to it more than the others he had. At least, of the ones I could see, anyways.

I glanced up to his face, my heart stalling when I found him looking at me from under his lashes. I immediately ducked behind my computer again, cursing myself over and over for being caught gawking at him. Fuck my entire existence, as if things between us weren’t awkward enough. Now he finds me staring at him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His head popped into my view at the corner of my screen, and I glanced over to find him leaning to the side to extricate me from my hiding place. Scraping up what little dignity I had left, I looked at him again, trying to keep the blush from my face.

“What are you doing?” He asked, a playful smirk on his lips. I noticed the dimples in his cheeks, giving him a boyish charm despite the fact I felt he was teasing me.