Lab

Normal girls don’t think like that. In a moment alone with a guy she finds cute, she can only think of two possibilities: making out with him or declaring her turbulent affections. Either way, it is a score! She decides to try to tame it down a little, wait for the minutes to sift through. She watches the clock drains the idle hours and eyes his movements against the reflecting glare of the windowpane. He seems too busy to ever bother with her presence or to ever notice the masculine jerks of her movements. It takes a good deal of effort for him to pay her attention and when he does, he only asks her to write this or that thing down so they’d finish earlier. She nods quietly. She supposes that he’s probably wanting her to test the bars, that it’s just his style, being slow. But style didn't seem to dominate the scene about him. Why is he being so motherfucking daft anyway? Can’t he see she wants him? She skims his face in the shadow, wishing she’d seen him steal a furtive glance at her. But nothing he ever does points to anything. She goes on studying him, unsure anymore where the world is heading, her intentions standing sharp-edged in the gray cast area of the room. He never speaks for so long as the moment lasts.

The answer is clear; the feeling is not mutual.