Desperate

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nineteen

It was a Wednesday, and I had walked in with the intention of doing the same thing I do every day. Sit down, read, ignore Shreyas's questions, leave. As of the moment, I was right on schedule.

7:36 and I was leaning back in my favorite bean bag, a terribly written British novel perched on my knees as I attempted to braid my hair and keep the book open at the same time. Shreyas was chatting away next to me, talking about his favorite poets, as I tried to get into a book that had the quality of dirty fan fiction on Wattpad.

Soon, Shreyas's words started to bleed right through the poorly written words.

"So, personally I think E.E. Cummings is useless, I mean I just don't understand half of what he writes and sometimes I sit there reading the same line over and over just trying to figure out what he's trying to say. I mean there is, of course, his very famous works, which are probably the easiest ones to understand, but I want to expand my territory, you know?" He looked at me, biting his lip. I pretended to be very intrigued by the book, though, like Shreyas, I was reading the same sentence over and over again. Maybe it was the fact that I was on my period, or that the look of hurt and defeat on his face was too depressing, but for the first time since our one-sided library love affair began, I answered one of his questions.

"No, I don't know." Though my eyes were still trained on the book in front of me, in my peripheral vision, I could see his face light up with joy.

As he started to laugh and continue his soliloquy, I couldn't help but smile.


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