She sat on the far side of the room, legs crossed in a manner that turned her body away from the rest of the class. She twirled a strand of hair repeatedly between her fingers, pausing now and then to scribble a few words into her journal.

I want her, it's true. I've wanted her since the day we met. February, it was, at the beginning of the term; less than a week shy of St. Valentine's Day. She sat next to me on that first day of class and we exchanged pleasantries, though nothing of consequence. It turned out to be her first day at a new school and she needed someone to help her find her classes. She has english first thing in the morning, with me, then chemistry, history and psychology. I try to run into her between classes, when I'm able.

Mr. Johnson has started today's lesson and my goddess shifts to face him. her chin now rests in the palm of her right hand, and she delicately runs her fingertips across her full, pouting lips.

I watch her every day, but she doesn't notice me. Why would she? My mousy brown hair is nothing spectacular, not like her own shiny, black tresses. Where she is at the height of fashion, I sport ratty jeans and a faded Metallica tee. A long time ago I came to accept the fact that my pursuit of her is hopeless, yet I watch her anyhow.

Unexpectedly she turns to face me. "Can I borrow a pen?" she asks, delving into my soul with the intensity of her large, grey eyes.

I hand her my best black pen, the one with the velvety ink that never smudges, and our fingers touch at the exchange. Tingles run up my spine and my heart skips a beat. Her creamy skin is soft, like silk.

"Thank you, Alice," she says, playing the syllables across her tongue. I blush; she remembers my name.