Chapter VII - Thomas
1222 Words
The cafeteria.
Just the name gives me the creeps.
Since I’ve been coming here — basically for half my life — I don’t think I’ve ever actually set foot inside. And I’m proud of that.
At lunchtime, I almost always go down to the abandoned basement with my friends: catering gets delivered there, we have our own table, far from the crowd and that aroma of hot plastic and lost vegetable dignity.
Even that’s a compromise for me. The food arrives sealed in those steaming steel containers that make it soggy, odorless, and completely unappealing.
But I adapt.
Sometimes, though, I take the car and go to the restaurant where my father eats — but only when I’m absolutely sure he’s not there. They know me, they treat me well, they’ll make whatever I ask for even if it’s not on the menu. A nice special treatment.
And no, the cafeteria isn’t part of my survival plan.
And then she shows up — and before I even realize it, she drags me into this living nightmare. And like an i***t, I smile.
God, there’s something strange about this girl. I don’t lose control often, and she makes it look easy.
I avoided her for an entire week. Not because I really wanted to — quite the opposite. But the first time, she’d already messed with my head enough to make me realize that staying away was the smartest move.
And yet here I am. Staring at her like an i***t.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw her sitting alone in the gardens, lost in peace and a book.
I was hanging around there only because the first-period professor had bailed, and staying home with my father — preaching yet another “lesson on success” to Will — wasn’t exactly an option.
So I took refuge here, in one of the quietest corners of campus. A place where you can breathe without feeling suffocated.
But instead of peace, out of all the places on this huge campus, I found her — the last person capable of giving me that.
And the craziest part?
I told her about my mother. Just like that, out of nowhere. As if it were… normal. As if it didn’t tear me apart every single time.
I don’t even talk about it with Maria, but with her… it just came out.
And then I recited a sonnet to her. A f*****g sonnet. Jesus Christ, could I sink any lower?
I watch her discreetly — or at least I hope so.
She has that calm, almost naïve aura about her.
And that hair… s**t, it looks like it was made for me to run my hands through.
I could swear she smells good, but not in an artificial way — not like the expensive perfumes that cling to me after the others.
No, she smells real, like a blooming garden. Like something you never get tired of breathing in.
Then I notice she’s staring at me, her head slightly tilted, her lips — damn, so full and inviting — holding back a smile.
s**t. Maybe I wasn’t that discreet after all.
“The cafeteria, of course,” I mutter, trying to regain a shred of composure.
She smiles. And not one of those polite smiles — no, it’s the kind that gives you ideas.
I sigh. Out of resignation, obviously.
I’m officially screwed.
I turn quickly, before I do something stupid — really stupid — and start walking with what I hope looks like confidence.
This is the only place I’ve never been, and I only know the way because I’ve made sure, over the years, never to take it.
We walk in silence: she’s a little awkward, I’m too focused on looking casual.
Hands in my pockets, a careless look on my face — but I have to take off my sweater to keep going, because I’m actually sweating.
“Aren’t your friends here today?” she asks suddenly. “The ones you usually hang out with.”
Of course they are. They’re probably waiting for me in the basement, with the usual catering and food that at least looks real.
But Aurora wins, ten to one.
“They’ll do without me today,” I say, and it comes out with that slightly arrogant ease that comes a little too naturally to me.
When we arrive, I hold the door for her and let her go in first.
Inside, the noise hits like a wall. Voices, chairs scraping, trays clattering, chaos.
The air smells of overcooked soup and disinfectant — a sensory experience no one should attempt on an empty stomach.
Or better yet, at all.
It reminds me of a hospital, and I already feel nauseous. Which, for someone who’s going to spend his life working in hospitals, has a certain tragic irony.
The tables inside are almost all taken. I spot a couple of empty ones outside, near the garden, and instinctively move that way — I need some decent air.
“Wait.”
Her fingers brush my arm. My body reacts — way too fast.
I glance down at her hand — which she immediately pulls back, as if burned by the touch — and the blush rising to her cheeks hits me harder than it should.
“We have to line up for lunch,” she says.
Right. The line. I’ve never stood in one in my life. Other people have always handled the practical stuff for me.
I almost laugh at the idea of capturing this moment: a Martini standing in line at the cafeteria.
Dad would lose his mind. “A sacrilege,” he’d say. “Your grandparents must be turning in their graves.”
Not to mention the food — he’s always called it barracks slop, speaking with such disgust that I never felt the need to try it myself.
Today, I’m not any more tempted. The smell doesn’t help.
Still, I take a breath and join the line. It’s slow — easily ten minutes of pure torture.
At least the view’s good.
Aurora stands in front of me, and I enjoy the sight without even pretending to hide it: her straight hair cascading down her back, the subtle curve of her waist, her long legs that seem endless.
She’s taller than average — with the right heels, she’d reach my height.
Heels.
That single thought sends my brain spinning into an R-rated trailer: her in a tight dress, sky-high heels, that deep gaze fixed on me.
Only on me.
Damn.
My jeans are already too tight — I’d better calm the hell down.
I clear my throat, as if that could erase the image, and try to focus on what’s ahead of me.
Too bad “ahead” means her — now bending slightly to grab a tray.
My eyes betray me, falling straight to that perfect, round, high ass.
If she turned around right now, I’m pretty sure she’d slap me.
Of course, she turns — holding a second tray out to me.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to hide the embarrassment, but she tilts her head, watching me — and s**t, it’s like she can read every filthy thought that just ran through my mind.
“Next.”
The cafeteria lady’s voice saves me.
- Writer
