Midterm Season

You see her only once a week, at the coffee shop where you both volunteer. It is always at two o'clock sharp, when she comes in to relieve you behind the counter. She is wind-blown and flushed. Sometimes there is snow in her hair. The encounter usually lasts thirty seconds, maybe a minute, as she asks you how you're doing and you tell her which of the appliances is currently acting up.

Last week, you had a midterm to go to, and she was five minutes late. You were in a hurry; you must have looked upset. She apologized profusely, but you laughed it off. You told her to enjoy her shift.

This week she arrives five minutes early. You ask her how she is. She asks you how your midterm went. You get the feeling that she has been thinking about your midterm all week, about you and your midterm all week.

"It went well," you tell her. "Really well, actually."

"That's awesome," she says.

She smiles at you.

You smile at her.