who wants to read a love story?
"We met during freshman year of college… sort of. It was an unusually hot autumn in Chicago, the leaves had yet to fall, in fact they were still stubbornly clinging to their branches and stretching up toward the sun on the trees that lined the quad on campus. It’s too hot, annoyingly so, and I live at least ten minutes away from my class. I’m shielding my face and glaring up at the sun, cursing it for its existence and wondering why it’s so hot. It’s September and I’ve just switched my major to English after an embarrassing week long stint with Film Studies. For the sake of time, I knew I should have taken the path by the lake because when I got to class — a sixty-five minute lecture on Shakespeare of all things — the desks were already arranged in a tight socratic style circle and there was one seat left. I was sweaty and out for breath from trudging both across campus and up four flights of stairs. My clothes laid askew and my hair was flying out of the slick ponytail I shoved it into. The professor silently handed me a syllabus, and when I looked up our eyes met. You offered me a smile, as if to say “I get it”."
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