Before the pandemic, she was one of the nameless strangers I saw on campus all the time but had never actually conversed with. Our coffee and teaching schedules must have been synced, given the number of times I had seen her reading in the café, standing in line for coffee, or walking towards the library just as I walked out of it. Her hairstyles varied, but were always perfect, complimented with bright lipstick that accentuated her fantastic vintage-inspired wardrobe, and heels that lengthened the long line of her shapely legs. On days I was running late, wearing a no-iron button-up and slim-fit slacks over just barely clean enough chucks, hair a wild cloud of curls, I wished I could have even half of her perpetual gravitas. And on days I dressed with care, applying the tiniest bit of eye makeup and lip balm to set off my own vintage dresses, choosing a wide belt to cinch in my small waist, amplifying the curves of my full chest and fuller ass, she was one of the ones I thought about seeing and showing off for.
I never wanted to be a creep, lurking around her, so I never learned her name. Yet when campus closed she topped my list of anonymous background players whom I wondered about. Had she gone home somewhere, or was this her home? If she was ill, or died, or moved away, or graduated, all of these would lead to me never seeing her again. These thoughts made me regret the fact that, fearing she was straight, and thus might reject me, I’d never verbalized my admiration for her in any way. It was hard living with the knowledge that such past missed opportunities were fully my own, within a broader context filled with missed opportunities imposed upon me from without.
Much like other things – the dance of sounds of a crowd waiting to catch a bus, the clatter of plates and voices and air-conditioning in a café, activists crying out for petition signatures on the plaza, and so on – by the time campus reopened she’d already begun to fade from my memory. So it was that on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, fatigued from lesson planning and in need of a break, I walked to the library, and there, opening the door to the lowest and least-utilized floor of the stacks, I nearly ran straight into her.
We were both masked – hers perfectly coordinated with her closely fitted dress, naturally – but I saw in her eyes a flash of recognition, and a smile. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, feeling myself begin to blush, and feeling glad my mask was on to cover that. “Not at all!” she replied, “honestly it’s great to see a familiar face around here.” *She thinks I am a familiar face,* I thought, flushing still more deeply. “Ah yes, you’re the lovely, impeccably dressed stranger from the café” – I watched her smile at the compliment and continued – “isn’t it funny how often our paths crossed there without us ever properly meeting?” “Indeed,” she said, and then, surprising me, she extended her hand – “I’m Michelle, pleasure to meet you.” I hesitated a moment, thinking about how many doorknobs and surfaces we’d each touched prior to this moment. *Fuck it, stop living with regret*, I thought to myself, extending my hand to meet her grasp. “Samantha – or Sam is fine. Pleasure to finally meet you, Michelle.”
Her hand in mine felt slightly electric. Soft. Squeezing. Clinging on a breath or two too long as she held my gaze steadily. I lost myself in the overwhelming sensory intensity of her bare hand in mine until finally she reluctantly let go, saying, “sorry, I forgot we aren’t supposed to do this anymore.” “Sometimes it’s fun being naughty,” I blurted out, immediately regretting it as I watched her eyes widen slightly. “Agreed,” she said, but shifting her weight slightly. I assumed she must be trying to leave, *way to subtle that up, Sam, fuck,* and moved to enter the stacks. Being far too embarrassed to look back, I didn’t see her standing on the stairs, watching me go.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/nikyz0/deep_diving_in_the_stacks_part_1_ff
Good start. Can’t wait to see where it goes.