Muse.

The Princeling and the Contrarian

I scheduled my first class for noon: Seminar on American Film, studying Hitchcock, exclusively. For the first day of class I don a long double breasted black blazer with white stitching, a white turtle neck, dark wash jeans and classic black converse. I throw a thrifted black baseball cap on with white lettering I don't recognize to add mystery (I hope).

I make sure to arrive in the film building exactly on time because I am way too nervous for small talk. The classroom is carpeted with evergreen painted walls and a blackboard sporting the name, Professor Smith, just behind the tall broad figure of what is obviously Professor Smith. His fair hair is combed neatly back from dark brows and stern blue eyes.

I scan the class for a seat. Near the back of the classroom, I immediately notice a boy with blue eyes and honey blonde hair that sorority girls back home would kill for. He looks like he could be the wayward heir of some reduced European monarchy I've never heard of. I take my seat next to him because he's good looking and because it's near the back.

I catch his eye as I sit down and he smiles slightly before he returns to scribbling something on a thin stack of paper covered in retro typeface.

"Welcome, everyone," declares the prof. "I'll begin class by asking each of you to write your favorite films on the board." He takes up a chalk piece. "I'll start us off." In thin letters Professor Smith scrawls Rear Window.

Students clamor toward the board, writing various films from The Grand Budapest Hotel to, American Psycho to La Piscine. After most students have gone, I write mine.

"Anna Karenina, 2012?" The fair-haired princeling asks softly as I return to my seat. "I haven't seen that one."

I nod. "It's done like a play. The sets change before your eyes to form each scene so there's always something to look at. It's engaging and I love the story."

"Hm," he looks askance, giving my words genuine consideration. "I'll have to check it out."

"So you've got ADHD." A dry low voice cuts into our conversation. "Try a sensory video next time. I hear those are great."

Face set in annoyance, I turn my head to the person sitting behind the princeling.

The boy whose voice I heard sits low in his chair, head tipped back against the wall behind him, legs sprawled invasively under the princeling's chair. Either they're friends or this guys has zero boundaries. 

And he's stupid hot.

He slides his stare down to meet me, looking down his nose at me, amused.

I completely forget what I was about to say.

He's once-in-a-lifetime good looking—the kind of boy you pass in an airport and never forget. His features are sharp and well formed as if from stone, and framed exquisitely by the dark brown hair falling about his face from where it's tied at the back of his head. What truly robs me of my thoughts are his eyes—greener than ivy and shaped like a cat's. 

He looks at me blankly, apparently feeling no compulsion to explain himself. Something in him reminds me of the sphinx, beautiful, toying and self-assured.

I gather myself with a dry swallow. "Um..Ok? What was yours?" Thank god I didn't stutter.

"Frozen," he answers, deadpan.

Because I'm not an art student, and because I know nearly nothing about film, I actually start pondering how Disney's Frozen might be a good film. From his posture alone, I can tell he is not concerned about the doing well in this class. Which means he's probably studied film before, maybe even majors in it.