It was windy.
The crossroads lengthened in all four cardinal directions. One could say the flowering crabapple trees in the periphery were almost sentient, and were striving to better fit their adjective to the best of their abilities. It was 7:57 AM on a winter day, and his concerns were in resonance with the floral rustling. Every sluggish step a fellow student took to reveal oneself from the edge of the Mansardic red building in the distance plucked his nerve in a nervous pizzicato.
He rocked backed and forth, embracing his baggy hoodie in search for primitive comfort, and recalled his plan. Open with "hey", tell her she's cute, give her the number. Three easy steps, yet the mere thought of carrying them out gave him the rush of both the robber and the robbed.
He worried; what if she were uncomfortable, what if she were grossed out, what if she were frigid, gay, taken... And as his thoughts whizzed on and about and sporadically neared the boundary of the unconscious that was the Taj Mahal of worries, a sight whacked his being into presence.
There she was, with her slender figure and black beanie, almost advancing towards him with a brisk stride. Every step towards the center of the crossroads revealed a detail about her, and produced feelings of sundry variety in him whose sole function were, all in all, to demonstrate that impossible tasks weren't entirely impossible, for they could be more.
