all of time is mine.

it did not matter that hundreds of young bodies swished in and out of its doors, or that they inhaled and exhaled its air. they arrived and left with hangovers, burning idealism, misplaced enthusiasm—yet the walls were (e)motionless. the building wore its age with a distinguished pride. the subtle snobbery of academia perfumed every room. all the wood was dark. the building somehow maintained a solemn, dignified hush despite the quotidian cacophony of young voices, cellphones, doors, lectures, chairs, emotions. it was the oldest, finest building on campus.

“even the sound of footsteps on a wood floor is foreplay,” she thought absently to herself, her red shoes clicking delicately down the hallway. portraits of previous university presidents lined the walls; few smiled. she turned casually to glance at the boy, his feet echoing dully just behind her. they traded eyes for a moment. convention required the quick, casual closure of the look—-but she wanted to borrow those eyes.

she kept walking. they were the only ones in the hall. on either side, the dim modulation of lectures occurring behind knowledged old doors. she wanted to look over her shoulder again. he was not beautiful. she did not know his name. reaching the end of the hall, they turned. they were parting in opposite directions. helplessly (with some help), her phone slipped out of her hand. it clattered loudly on the wood floor, spinning across the dark planks. because it ended up somewhere nearer his feet, he picked it up and handed it her. he refused eye contact. 

she turned right, climbed some stairs, and did not ever see him again.