What was happening here? Why did twenty stories fall through the pit of his stomach when she pawed at her chapstick and bore down on him with the endless swamp of her irises? A frown fell, aware that he'd missed something she said behind the silkscreen of her fingertips. But he didn't appear to sweat it terribly much, sinking into the comfort of his booth seat and watching her vanish toward the kitchen cubby hole.
Drawing the miniature spiral notebook from a back denim pocket, his attention dropped to the paper about the time that his waitress was approached by a beaming, freckled friend. Prying loose a pen as well, he began to write a question in fine, block-print. Eyes tightening with a focus worn around the edges, skeptical but not yet concerned.
Did he know her? The question egged at the base of his spinal cord, and it felt relatively similar to fight or flight.
When she returned to him, there would be words scripted onto college rule lines, pen sitting beside.