Our eyes met.
I couldn't remember the last
such unadorned directness I had received in answer to a question.
It struck loose harmonics in me which I wish it hadn't. I didn't wish
to be reminded, to acknowledge my susceptibility. Not now.
Why not now, rather than at any other time, was another thing
I wished to ignore.
I glared out the window again, then took a swallow of my cooling drink. I
could feel her, a presence close by me as she was yet there was no
pressure, no unease that I generally detected in all sorts of people.
She didn't seem to mind sitting here with me, making sure I was all right,
though she didn't seem the type to gouge a free cup of coffee from me.
She also didn't seem aimless. There was in her body though at ease, in
her face and most particularly in her eyes, an energy of intent.
That's how I defined it to myself. Having it I could identify it in others.
Those intent upon their work, their art, their mission, had it. It
energized their lives; motivation, I suppose it was, but it was more.
Devotion, compulsion, determination, addiction, in part scraps and veils
of all these things, in part remaining always too elusive to be captured in
definition.
There was also an intelligence in her eyes of a kind and strength which
caught me up intrigued despite myself. Despite my warnings to myself I
was a sucker for that. Seldom could I resist the possibility of knowing
something about an intelligent human.
I never escaped without paying for that fascination.
Our eyes met.