The vending-machine cappuccino was burning my hands through the flimsy paper cup. I held the door anyway, because she was cute. A petite redhead with witty political buttons on her messenger bag – who could have resisted her?
"I’m Kate," I said, as the elevator opened. "What floor?"
"Téa," she said, shifting the large, awkward box to her hip and shaking my hand. "Fifth. Glad I don’t have to take the stairs."
"I’m on fifth, too," I said as I pushed the button, "majoring in Sculpture and Physics. How about you?"
"International Studies. How’d you end up on the Culture Hall?"
"I was an exchange student in high school. I’m interested in linguistics, too, but I couldn’t triple-major. I think the real problem is that I don’t actually know what I want to do with my life."
This isn't really how it happened; how I met her. I don't actually remember meeting her, though it may as well have happened like this. I tried to write a
novel, or at least a short story, about how I fell in love with her, we almost dated, she got
sick, moved away and back, and became my best friend. This is as far as I got; a made-up scene where we meet. I'm still in love with her, and I now know that she isn't a real
redhead.