I first became aware of your existence when you hurt yourself during a football game. You were writhing with pain; I still remember your knuckles going white as you ripped chunks of grass out in a valiant but futile attempt not to scream. A boy I was then infatuated with ran to you with a bag of ice. The day ended and you faded to obscurity once more.
It wasn’t until the chilly morning of December the 17th, that you walked, or rather limped, back into my life. You were already at work when I arrived for my shift. Perched on the edge of a high chair you worked on some project for class. You grunted in response to my hello. I took in your disheveled appearance with distaste.
The pungent smell of pain relief cream assaulted my nostrils, with a wrinkled nose I scanned the booth we were to share for the next hour, and my eyes fell upon a pair of crutches.
You turned around and cocked an eyebrow, in an expression I’ve grown to love.
“You’re the guy who hurt himself during the game!”
You returned to your laptop, deeming me unworthy of a reply.
“Which leg was it?”
“Left.” You replied, your eyes never leaving the screen.
“Oh, that’s not so bad!” I chirp, thinking of my own injury.
“I’m double-footed.” A note of pride warmed your otherwise cold voice.
You limped past me and out of the booth, slamming the door on your way out. Was it something I said? You returned a few minutes later, a can of iced tea in your hand. Peach or Red Fruits? I forget.
You didn’t say a word for the rest of our hour together. Your brother and a few of his friends arrived, and you paused just as you were leaving and said, “It was nice meeting you. See you in January.”
I remember thinking that I had misjudged you.
Daily Prompt: Overwhelming