February 22

I’m showered and out the door by six-fifteen. Well, I could study Portugese in the campus center if I really needed to. But really, my goal is to get to the Beanery before Reynolds gets there. The route is cold and slippery in the early light, as the sun is just barely below the horizon.
As I pass the bus stop a block from the Beanery, though, I freeze in my tracks. Just getting off one of the black and gold Port Authority buses is none other than Katie. She spots me and waves. “Fran, honey!”
Dumbly, I wave back and trudge towards her, careful not to slip on the slush piled on the sidewalk. “Hi,” I say, hoarsely, more out of shock than the cold air or a lack of use of my vocal cords.
“I didn’t know you took this route,” she says, giving me a gentle hug. She’s got thick woolen mittens on, and a heavy winter coat wrapped across her chest. I don’t know why I was looking at her chest just that moment, but it seemed like that’s where my eyes just landed.
And don’t look at me like that. I’m a confident middle C myself. If I would be jealous of anyone’s rack, it’d be Kyle’s, but she’s about as feminine as a chunk of granite sometimes.

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