past tense.

a loner's lunch.

I've noticed that eating goes by rather quickly without someone to talk to.
    My run-of-the-mill sandwich was weirdly moist on the outside and far too dry on the inside. I bit right into a bruise in my apple of the most unfortunate texture.
    Even so, it took me no longer than five minutes to eat.
    I sat out on the quad, hidden by the shade even though the sun would've been much nicer, and looked around. Not many people were sitting outside, except for a few small groups. Mainly old friends making new reconnections.
    Through my peripheral vision I could see the same boy from this morning.
    I took a moment to look at him, because really, what else could I do?
    He was alone, nestled into an undoubtedly uncomfortable chair like it was a sofa. He clutched the same book, the novel missing its cover. From my seat across the grassy precinct, I could still see the glowing determination that overtook his eyes. Glaring indignantly at the pages, he was taking in every word as if his life depended on it. As if he had nothing left to hold on to.
    Blunt as it sounds, Thatcher was hot. Seriously.
    He just had the hair and the cheekbones and the general facial structure that seemed hard to resist. From those few minutes next to him earlier, he didn't seem to have that blatant charm that most girls would gawk over, but come on... he had the face.
    And the hair, and the cheekbones, and those eyes....
    I couldn't tell whether or not people were staying away from him, or he was staying away from the people.