The Encounter

“Hey,” he said to her, as they passed in the hallway.

“Oh... hi,” came a startled reply, followed by an uneasy smile.

Excitement flushed over him, warm and intoxicating, at the magnificent success of the encounter. For years now he had merely observed her, lovingly coveted her from afar. Suddenly, interaction had been achieved and the giddy joy resulting was overwhelming.

Yet lurking beneath this jubilation, there existed within him a nagging dissatisfaction. The encounter had been limited, he realized. Perhaps nothing significant had transpired at all, and the entire interaction had been nothing more than a fleeting exchange of inconsequential mumblings. In this moment came to him the crushing realization that love is not at all a keyboard insomuch as it is not entirely a mouse, and while any dim-witted monkey could pound on the keys, only a visionary could craft complete sentences. Inundated with that depressing thought, he collapsed into a sticky trashcan, where he remained for the next forty minutes.

She was troubled, too-- annoyed at being approached by such a measly man, and annoyed with herself for responding. It was cruel really, to feign such reciprocity when surely there was none. Or was there? She could not logically conceive there could exist any attraction within her, yet love is not logical, and she could not deny a flame, however small, had been ignited in her chest. Something about the nasal quality of his voice, something about his mangled, wiry figure, something about the way his eyes darted about nervously, like a bewildered bunny rabbit, clouded her mind with debilitating passion.