a_grand_narrative Bespeckled The room was quiet and undisturbed until the moment she rose from her chair. Then all eyes looked up, glanced away, stared up again. She rose out of her seat, the dreary atmosphere disturbed first by the silk of her black hair, then parted and rippled throughout the room by the elegance of her rising torso, and the glimpse of a congenial pink scarf wrapped around her neck, tucked away somewhere under her coat. They watch her as she lithely takes her first step through the room; how could they not have seen her there before? Their previous thoughts scatter as they watch her striding elegantly toward the exit, her dark doe eyes glancing about the room, behind which undoubtedly lies a satisfied little secret, her slight and mysterious smile hinting that she holds a knowledge others dream of. The girl with the pink scarf is you, and as you walk out of the library, you construct a visage in your head – the visage of a mystery wrapped in allure. Yes, you are a picture of exotic strangeness, with each step conscious of your inexplicable presence in these people’s world – no, of their presence in yours. You see yourself through their eyes. They bask quietly, yet longingly, in the exotic strangeness of her walking toward the door, in the silent exhilaration wrapped in her bright scarf and hidden behind her flashing eyes and barely parted smiling lips. You see them see you, and they want so desperately, so suddenly, to keep you. These dreamy thoughts are validated by the momentary glance of the girl whose eyes fly to the faraway creature, drawn away from a conversation with somebody else who doesn’t matter now, to look into her face. She wanted to be this girl; by a man walking by who sees her feet first, and then raises his eyes to follow her steps as she walks past. He wanted more of her; by the people who sidestep her approaching so that she won’t have to walk around them on the way to class. They want only to make her happy. You are aware of your hand delicately tapping the door as you walk into the building, of your index finger lightly brushing aside your hair, of your pants stretching enticingly over your thighs as you take your first step on the stairs, of your pink scarf and your rosy cheeks and your subtle shining mouth. And you see them, in your mind; how they LOVE you. 031210 ... randomly recent now, is this written with loving admiration or jealous hate? ! 040111 what's it to you? who go blather from