We were working on our stories for a class together. Mine was a time traveling dystopian romance, an unsuprising choice for a college freshman. I was snuggled in a blanket on the couch, lethargically typing a line, deleting it, and typing it again, trying desperately to brute force my way past the writer’s block I’d had for the last hour. Ben was huddled at his desk, fingers click-clacking away with vigor, like the pages of his story were already etched in his brain, and his only task was to put them to print.
I snuck a glance over at him, shoulders hunched over his laptop, his black cashmere coat and turquoise silk scarf hanging on the edge of his chair. His lanky build fit snugly into his gray wool sweater, and every so often his long, curly bangs would creep its way into his eyes, and he would impatiently sweep it to the side with his hand. As if the only thing that mattered were the words in his head, and everything else was just a nuisance to be brushed aside.