His name is Tim O’Brien.
Like the author, I know. But less old and less riddled with memories of war. Think more modern day Romeo: semi-muscular build, glasses that make him look intelligent, a dimple in his left cheek, a smile that says “I understand you.” You get the picture.
Or perhaps you don’t. Allow me to elaborate. He drinks his coffee right-handed, but writes with his left. He nods when someone talks. And once I even saw him cry. It was a clip from "Old Yeller." I mean, who wouldn’t cry? A sociopath wouldn’t. My professor didn’t. This confirmed my suspicions. He was cold. But not Tim. Tim was hot. Very hot.
I was watching him. He was chewing his pen. Running it lazily over his lips. I wish I was that pen.
He was wearing blue today. I wondered if he smelled like it. Like rain, or waterfalls, or sleepy morning showers.
Class was boring. Tim had his headphones in. So badass.
Everyone started packing their book bags. Despite there still being one minute left. The prof was annoyed, but reluctantly waved us away. College students just didn’t care. He’d probably go home. Find some comfort in Merlot. And watch more movies where dogs die. Sick bastard.
I shoved my notebook in my backpack. My hair falling mysteriously over my face. Just in case Tim looked over. He didn’t. He had already left. I headed for the door. Defeated yet again. When suddenly...
It happened. The cataclysmic moment when our worlds collided. A thud.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“I forgot my pencil.”
“Okay.”
He walked away. Back into the classroom. I was in awe. The smell of his aftershave was everywhere. It clung to me. I smiled to myself.
He smelled like waterfalls.
