coulisse • lookism

library [Gun] - i

He's here again.

Studying. Sitting at your table and taking up space.

Again.

Well, it's not your table, really, it's the library's, and you've got no real claim on it, and it's not like your name's written on it, but—

No, who are you kidding? It's absolutely yours. You've been using it by yourself for years, peacefully undisturbed by other library-goers—who are all good and reasonable people—until this random jerk came along and asked if he could use the farthest empty corner of your table.

What were you supposed to have said? No?

That's ridiculous, of course you couldn't have. Your table is a generous six-seater; you would have come off as a weirdly possessive nut. Or, even worse, rude.

Besides, you had reasoned. He didn't seem like the studious type. In fact, he looked rather the opposite, with vivid tattoos running up his arms and a body built almost exclusively with muscle. His shoulders were so broad, he must work out religiously; there was no way he spent any significant amount of time regularly sitting at a desk. Plus, who the hell gelled their hair and put on a designer suit when they were just going to the library?

This would probably just be a one time thing, you'd thought. You'd give him a week, tops, before you never had to see him again.

That had been three weeks ago. Unfortunately for you, he's been coming in every weekday without fail, and there's no sign of him losing any momentum. He's lost the designer suits and button-ups for designer turtlenecks and jeans, so you know he's pretty serious about this.

Also, he has apparently decided that your table is now his table too.

You're about ready to tear your hair out.

The worst part is, he actually studies. Like, in earnest. He sits there for hours and spends the whole time quietly going over his workbooks, his pencil busily moving over the page or tapping pensively against the table. Which would be great if you were there to do your schoolwork (like your mom thinks you are), but you're not, and his diligent work ethic is making you too self-conscious to bury yourself in fantasy novels like you normally would. Instead you have to lug your textbooks out and review for a test that isn't for another week, all because you want to avoid being the target of this random stranger's judging eyes and silent disapproval.

The sheer injustice of it all. If you wanted to study for real, you would do it from the comfort of your room; the only reason you go to the library is so that you can read your cheap, trashy novels in peace, without your mom hovering behind you with a slipper in hand.

With a huff, you lug your math textbook onto the table with a soft thump.

There's a number of loose papers sticking out the top, and you flip to the last of these to find what you'd been working on in class. Pulling out the sheets you'd been using as a bookmark, you carelessly toss them onto the table in front of you. It's the math test you'd gotten back just today, with your grade written at the top in bold, red ink. High nineties, of course, because otherwise your mom would beat your ass.

You must have thrown them too hard, or else the wood must have been waxed recently, because the papers slip across to the opposite corner of the table, where the source of your ire is sitting. The man glances at the papers suddenly appearing next to his hand and looks up at you, bemused. Or so you assume. It's weird because you can't really see his eyes, even though his glasses are literally made of glass.

"Sorry," you say, likely sounding far sorrier than you feel. "I didn't know the table would be that slippery..."

You reach out for your test, and he picks it up to return it. He gives it a cursory scan at first, eyes vaguely skipping over the front-most page, but then something makes him pause and furrow his brows.