Alice ran a shaking hand over her hair, trying to smooth the stubborn frizz that crowned her head. It was pointless - and repetitive, as this was the fourth time in as many minutes. Her heels bounced nervously, keeping time with the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.
On a tense exhale she cast her eyes about the room.
It was small, perhaps eight by ten feet. Tall bookshelves lined the one wall, crammed with encyclopedias, tomes on syntax, phonetics, morphology - a few newer editions sticking out amidst the cracked and worn binding of older works. There were covers of leather and linen, creased with age and use, with torn pieces of paper crammed between them and stacked atop them, hastily scribbled thoughts and observations. Papers were stacked on every available surface: piles on the floor and on the desk - neatly arranged by topic, she knew. Every pile was a testament to the web of Kit’s thoughts, stretching across a wide variety of subjects, each birthed from the other, interconnected and expansive. Curiously spun threads that she could lose herself in. Had gladly lost herself in, once, in a not so distant past.
The thin golden band on her left hand reproached her.
Hypocrite.
I shouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t be here.
I need his help.
Her heart and mind warred with each other, pulling on her with the demand to stay, pushing at her desperation to flee.
She turned from the desk, grabbing her cardigan off the back of her chair and strode for the exit. Never mind that he possessed the specific qualifications she needed, forget that she had been tasked with an insurmountable enigma.
The door was only a few steps from her when the knob turned and it swung open.
Time slowed to an agonizing crawl as her eyes roved the figure entering the room. Wire rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were cast down, fixed on the open file in his hand, but she knew the irises were a brown so deep that the pupils were nearly indistinguishable. Eyes that had once been so startling and then so infinitely dear, before she had watched an all consuming grief eclipse the light in them. His hair was coarse and wavy, a texture that her fingers knew by memory. She had been the one to convince him to let it grow out from the near buzz cut he had favored in his youth, pleading with him to let it grow.
He side stepped her without even glancing up from his reading.
Alice closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, wrestling with old wounds for control of her tears. Setting heavy shoulders, she turned back to her seat and carefully lowered herself onto the worn upholstery. Her eyes darted to the nameplate on his desk, dull in the late afternoon shadows: Professor Christopher Murray.
The sharp rap of papers against the desk filled her ears as he straightened his notes. He set the papers to the side, lifted his gaze to hers and froze. His formerly relaxed posture stiffened, lips slightly parting and eyes growing wide. Alice blinked against the burn in her eyes as she watched Kit slump back into his plush chair, running a hand over his face. Grabbing hold of a frail thread of composure, she held on for all she was worth as his throat worked over a swallow.
“Alice.”
This is interesting.