Mutual Curiosity at a Hub

I was sitting by a coffee place, passing time between classes by sketching a 3-D draft of my dream apartment. Sitting at another table in front of me, facing me, was a well-dressed student. He had a neat haircut and was wearing black, thick rimmed square framed glasses, an argyle sweater over a light blue button-up, and khaki pants. He was pouring over a book, doing some homework.

At my school, you get accustomed to seeing science, math, or business books, but judging by the paragraph structure of this book, the subject was either history, a literary compilation, or philosophy. I sat there trying to imagine what kind of guy this was and the book he was reading. I wondered how his mind perceived it, and subsequently, everything else around him. It amused me to build his character, like the opening scene of a movie. I found myself playing a character as well: sipping coffee and sketching architectural layouts. I really wanted to know what he was so immersed in.

There was one time when he got up and left his stuff. I got up, with the pretense of tossing out my empty sugar packets, and peeked at his book. Philosophy. A beautiful, brown leather-bound textbook. Mass text filled the page, like sprawled out lines of the interior of someone's hands. I sat back in my seat, the feeling of satiated curiosity seeping into my head and spreading to my shoulders like a teabag seeped in hot water.

The guy came back, stayed a few more minutes, and then got up to leave. As he passed me, he smiled and said, "I really like your drawings by the way."

There's really nothing that happened thereafter; it seemed to be a moment of no significance. Much ado about nothing.