I watch the scene unfolding before my eyes with turmoil in my soul. She stands in front of him, batting her mascara slick eyelashes and he smiles at her. A smile at her empty splendor. I am also flirting, in my own self-effacing way, holding the book as high as I can, hoping the title will catch his eye. But, of course, it doesn't. He continues to stare at her mindless beauty, his true self suddenly revealed to me, in all its grimy truth. He wears a pseudo-intellectual shell to disguise his shallow interior and the weight of that epiphany lies heavily inside my mind.
The bell rings and they walk off, she to the right and he goes straight. I am right behind him, but let myself fall behind, going down the side stairs instead of the main ones. I don't want him to see the tears that are hiding behind my own bare lashes.