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It’s 12:30PM, and the dining commons at Backupsmore is bustling. After waiting for an unreasonable amount of time in the line for spaghetti, you finally get your food. Looking around, you miraculously find an open spot at the long counter facing the window.
A few bites in, the girl next to you devours the last bits of her lucky charms and runs out the door (probably late for class). Just as soon as she left, another figure approaches the now vacant seat.
“Uh… is this seat taken?” a meek yet deep voice asks you.
Immediately you look up, surprised and a bit confused. During the lunchtime rush, everyone usually has an “every man for himself” attitude; manners were pretty rare.
You recognize the man standing beside you. It’s that super genius in your chemistry class, Stanford (you had remembered his name because he was smart enough to attend Stanford!). He’s got that awkward, nerdy cuteness to him.
Smiling, you reply, “Go ahead!”
He blushes as he says thanks, taking the seat to the right of you. When bends over a bit to sit down, you notice that he’s got some extra chub around his midsection–and, well, everywhere, actually. How adorable, you think.
You turn back to your food, assuming the conversation is over. Sure, he’s smart and cute and totally your type but he’s probably just trying to eat. Don’t wanna bother him and–
“So, um, how’s your day going?”
You whip your head around towards him, caught off-guard yet again. “Oh, uh, not too bad I guess. How about you?”
Stanford is still beet-red, and his eyes are unable to look at you for any longer than two seconds. “Oh, yeah, same here,” he states, adding an awkward chuckle at the end. He looks like he wants to say something else, but since it also seems like he’s too nervous to speak up again, you decide to say something instead.
“We’re in the same chem class, right? Mr. Dylatov?”
“Yes!” he responds immediately (and probably more enthusiastically than he intended, judging by the way he cringes for a moment).
You can’t help but smile at him. He’s too precious. He must have wanted to flirt with you, but his people skills could probably use a little work.
“And you’re super genius Stanford, right?” And he lights up again, quite happy that you remembered his name and complimented him in the same sentence.
“Heheh, well that title might be a bit much… A-and you can just call me Ford.”
“Sure,” and you give him your name as well.
As the conversation lulls, you notice his fingers thrumming against the table (out of both nervousness and excitement). Something seems off about the tempo of his fingers–like an extra beat. An extra finger!
Ford catches you staring at his hand, and quickly places it in his lap, embarrassed. You feel embarrassed too, feeling rude for staring.
“Ah, I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to stare. Your hand just looks so cool!” you apologize.
He glances at you, “Really?” There’s a hint of hope in his voice, and he sets his hand back on the counter.
“Of course! I mean, your extra finger is even fully functional too; that’s pretty rare in polydactyly!”
Now he’s a bit surprised, impressed that you’re familiar with the term. Ford lets you touch his hand, and you both share a laugh when he reveals that his other hand is just as unique. He’s able to relax a bit more now, but his persistent blush and inability to look you in the eyes are a reminder of his nervousness.
In the middle of your rant (which Ford seems to be enjoying, even though he can barely get a word in edgewise) about how difficult chemistry is for you, you notice the time. You’ve got about 15 minutes to get to your next class.
“Ah crap, sorry, I’ve gotta go to class. See ya in chem tomorrow!” you say rather suddenly.
“Oh, alright, see you then.” Ford sounds a bit disappointed. Just as you’re ready to walk away, he speaks up again.
“Um, if–if you ever need any help with chemistry, I’m in Warner Hall, room 203.”
He’s still unable to look at you, timidly twiddling his fingers together. He’s way too damn cute, you think.
You smile and answer, “I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”
He blushes even more, but he can’t contain a smile of his own.