The lobby was slowly filling with people, most of them clustered in little groups. The last of the day's light clung to the window, through which she could still make out the grass, the trees, and the bronze fountain-statue from which water sprayed in parallel arcs.
She was sitting at a table near the window, her gaze falling gently in the distance, taking in the park that flanked the east side of the building. She still didn't know how exactly it happened.
He had been one of the first in the office to welcome her. While she waited to be formally introduced, others had walked past her in the hallway that day, but he had stopped to say hello. When she told him about the work that she had done before, he seemed genuinely interested, and asked her further questions in a way that told her he knew the subject. He had asked her if she was adjusting well, in a way that an old friend might have. She was sorry when the head of the department, a dreadfully dull man, had broken up their conversation.
She had seen him only a couple of times afterward, and only from a distance. He was in another department. He apparently kept to himself; the antithesis, she thought, of the office octopi who spread their tentacles out to everyone in the hopes of one day climbing over them. He seemed unconcerned while he worked by himself; but, paradoxically, she felt that he was more particularly concerned, had a greater capacity for it, than anyone else she had met.
Then one day he had come up to her. Now that she thought about it, she had hoped for precisely that when she had taken out her book and begun reading in the common room. His face had brightened as he asked her what she thought of the novel, full of expectation, like a child asking an adult what they think of their drawing. She heard herself blabbering about Lucy Snowe and stopped herself just in time, before she told him just how well she understood her loneliness. He took up the conversation where she halted, jumping across passages, books, and authors in his excitement; but not, she felt, out of any desire to show off, but out of the joy of having found someone to talk to about this, as he put it.
They arranged to meet again in the common room the following week. Just when he had started telling her about the book that he was then reading, a collection of very short stories (he had made a joke about the palm of his hand, but she had forgotten the context), they were interrupted by a group of colleagues who took over the room. They looked for another suitable place, but found none. Since he was traveling the subsequent week, they had rescheduled for two weeks later.
After two weeks of imagining the paths that their conversation might take, of running scripts in her head of the things that she would like to say and the things that he might say to them in response, the day finally came. They were left to themselves this time. She had forgotten the details of his face since she last saw him, and she was happy to let him speak while nodding along.
At some point, the conversation led to Chekhov. To her surprise, she suddenly heard herself ask, "Would you like to go to the theater?" He looked at her, startled, but only for a moment. She had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, blurting out the question. Embarrassment at her foolishness had no time to take hold, however, as he was quick to respond. Sure—she liked that he had said this, sure—and did she have a play in mind? That's when she explained that she had seen a poster for The Seagull at the local theater, and that she had thought how nice it would be to go see it. She kept the rest of her thought to herself, that she wished she had someone to go see it with.
And so it had happened that she found herself sitting at the theater, waiting for him. She had put on her favorite dress, which she hadn't worn in a long time, and she had even put on lipstick. She felt good, light and tingly with anticipation.
The park had become noticeably darker, but while the imminence of night had so often filled her with melancholy over the past few years, had besieged her with doubts and fears both real and invented, she was at ease now. She hoped that they would go for a walk together when the play was over.
The lobby became noisier, and just before she could wonder whether he might be late, she saw him walking toward the entrance. She wanted to run to him and wrap her arms around him. She admonished herself for her silliness. Let him come to you.
But when he entered the lobby, she felt herself rise and float toward him.