He doesn’t turn when I enter the room, even though I’m the only person there besides him. Both of us early, and trying to grasp the things we do not understand. Simple duality. We’ve never made contact of any kind, despite what we share. I see him and know his thoughts; their humour and simple elegance. We have the same questions, yet ask nothing. We smile at the same things, laugh at the same things, puzzle over the same things, note the same things. I can’t help but notice. He floats in my mind all day. I see the way he adjusts his glasses. I see his text book, opened in front of him, looking a thousand years old, though it’s a new edition. If only I could be that book: treasured, poured over, taken to bed, the feel of my pages familiar, his ink on my skin. I dream of it.

I wonder what his name is.

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