still life (blood-hail)

It's late at night, I indulge myself after the strenuous academic endeavor of pumping out a five page essay. It's warm and well lit, the dining hall relatively secluded. I can think of nothing more collegiate than the portrait we paint right now, me poised over a laptop with a burrito and shitty coffee , him brooding over love lost. 

I too, have my own regrets.  I think of what could have been were I bolder, even if the bed of an older man is a place I know better than to find myself in. The plot of a dark indie movie: I often fall victim to the fallacy of romanticization. Unlikely friendship, blossoming womanhood spectated by someone with adoring eyes, sharing records and fleeting glances is a less than probable outcome, yet it is the possibility that haunts me more than his deep blue eyes do. I am at the age and of the disposition where a fleeting encounter could be more, yet I handle such matters with the clumsy, awkward demeanor of a schoolgirl. Had my mind moved quicker (the only thing doe-like about me being the tendency to get caught in mental headlights) I might have had someone to quietly pine over. 

 I feel that I squander my newly gained charm of femininity with the caginess and flightiness of my disposition. A wasted encounter, I am burdened with the knowledge that strangers of that caliber are hard to come by, at least around here. Whether it's cynicism, realism or intuition, I doubt I will see him again. Maybe I just need to get out more. I suffer from the symptoms of an understimulated mind desperately seeking escape.