M&M

She didn’t even come to class the first day. It’s something I still don’t understand. With everything that happened, I wonder how different it would have been if she had come that first day. Would Megan not have stood out among the usual new faces? Would I not have stood out to her?
Should I waste time telling you that she wasn’t perfect? The second day of class, she approached me in the hallway, where I was standing in front of my room and proclaimed herself to be the last face to attach a name to on my roster.
“Are you Mr. Larson?” she asked as she took off her headphones.
“Yes.”
She smiled and said, “I’m Megan Masse…I missed your class yesterday.”
“Oh, well…welcome.”
She nodded and went into my classroom.
When the bell rang, and I went back in, she had seated herself in the far corner of the room, to my right, in perfect view of my desk. That hour, the most noticable thing about Megan was that, unlike her fellow students, everytime I looked at her, there she was, her cinnamon eyes looking straight back at mine. Not being used to actual eye contact with students, it unnerved me. The first few times I had to pause in midsentence and remember what I had been saying. At the end of the period, I gave them free time to brainstorm about their upcoming assignment and went to sit at my desk. Seeing Megan with her head bowed over her spiral notebook, the headphones back on, and her pen busily scratching away at the paper, I decided it was safe to get a good look at her.
She had a petit body, but unless you were standing next to her, as I had been in the hallway, you would never have known. Everything about her gave the impression that she would be tall. Her legs and torso were long and steady, as if she was a runner. Even her hands and the fingers gripping her pen were thin and graceful, and I could easily see them carressing piano keys. Her only feature which was short, as her height, was her hair. Her brown locks had been cut short, shaping around her head, with a few piecy lengths tapered down in the front, so they hung in her eyes. Winter wasn’t far behind, and she was dressed accordingly, with classy black boots, a pair of deep blue jeans, and a loose, longsleeved shirt. As my eyes trailed up her apparently home-knitted scarf, I saw she was looking straight at me, an amused smirk on her narrow lips. The smirk pulled them so thin, they almost disappeared.
I locked my gaze with her for a moment, not willing to be guilted into looking away first. It worked, and she looked back down at her paper, the pen tapping where her hand had paused. And that was how it continued for most of the semester. It wasn’t that I thought about her sexually at first. It was just that she…stood out. And I couldn’t tell why.