Across the hall she sat in a freshman seminar,

bored and probably dreaming of the sleep missed while an old scholar in brown corduroy pants lectures a group of eighteen year olds on the requirements of undergrad.

He was a young janitor by way of the family business, who inherited its clients after the last owners were brutally taken from this world in the tornado three months prior. Not Scott’s first choice of income, but day by day seeing the lucrative benefit of this trade.

Due to a fine idea by a group of staff at the university, in an effort to encourage conversation, blank name tags were passed around. Students were asked to write their first and last names in whatever color they wished, true creative freedom. Below their names went the genre of music they most frequented in their free time.

Eagerly, students began their first assignment of college. Classic rock, Reggae, folk, and hip-hop were of the more common answers and ignited forced conversation between the mass.

Scott closely studied the room, playing it off as if he did not have his focus on her long brown hair and subtly graceful disdain for this elementary task.

As the professor carried on about who knows what, Scott stayed near. Wetting his mop and glossing over the same square foot of white tile, hoping to read her name tag to put a name to this black sheep beauty. Not surprisingly, she folded the adhesive side together and threw the tag on the floor.

What is her name?

An hour and forty minutes after the start of the class students rolled out in a wave of chatter. Feelings of comfort have begun to come over them as dialogue of music interests morphed to more personal matters and friendships were birthed.

She walked out into the hall with no peers. With no care. Scott was fascinated with her individualism and confidence. As well as her sense of style: ripped blue jeans, a green and black flannel shirt, and white crop top that barely covered the bottom of her bellybutton.

“How you doing sir?”

Scott asks the professor as he exited the room and locked the door.

“The start of the new year, one could not be more thrilled to challenge a new group of hopefuls.”

Said professor McCaw.

“Real quick, that girl. Woman. In the green shirt, what was her name?”

The professor furrowed his brows at the question. Debating if he had the authority to give out such personal information on a student to a person in a navy blue onesie.

“Undesirable, distant, aloof. Take your pick.”

“Right.”

Those weren’t the titles Scott would give his mysterious guiding light, but until he figures out her name, he will have to work every day, hoping one day he will clock out a shift with knowing the information.