The Printer Room

When I was in the printer room, gathering up my freshly printed goods, suddenly the door flew open.  There, in the entrance, stood a girl I had never seen before, clearly also with printing on her mind.

She smiled at me, with a short, delicate smile.  We were alone in that small room: just her, me, two printers, a photocopier, and a giant plotter.  One rarely experiences such poetically perfect moments.  It was fate.  She felt it too.  Probably.

In a moment, a thousand pictures of the future flashed and danced before our eyes: the shy, uncertain getting to know one another, the discovery of unexpected commonalities, the superfluous printing trips, the surreptitious letter-writing, the growing affection, the nervous exchanging of our stories, the active listening, the hair-stroking, the comforting, the perfected affection, the house on the island by the river overlooking the meadow between the forests, the forgetting of a birthday, the music wafting around the campfire, the silly argument in which I was right but magnanimously don't dwell on too long, the paint on the walls, on a canvas, on a cat, the passive speaking, the new ways of thinking, the forgiveness, the end.

But sometimes a moment is simply too huge, feelings are too strong, possibilities too deliciously boundless.  One gets scared.

This, I can only assume, is why she quickly gathered her papers, turned around, switched off the light, and left me alone in the dark with my thoughts, as if I hadn't been there.