It’s 4AM! Although she hasn’t ever needed to hit the snooze button before, Sophie finds herself having hit it three times this morning before she pulled herself out of bed. Having arrived in the states a few days ago, she isn’t jetlagged, but the time difference between London and America is enough to make her feel a little unsettled.
Sophie, a 20 year old, redheaded British exchange student, with the palest green eyes and the palest white skin, is up now, and after pulling her tights over her long legs, and then over her firm backside she smiles, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The perfection of her derriere catches her by surprise as usual, and after she admires the svelteness of her body perhaps a moment too long, she knows that she must leave.
Pulling a sweater over herself, covering her almost too perfect breasts, she heads out of her MIT apartment, her home for this year. She is one of three exchange students, and one of the perks of being a senior exchange student is that, if they were available, you could get a private apartment on campus. Sophie got the last one.
She exits her apartment building and gets her bearings. After checking and rechecking her online map, she figures out where the track field is, and makes her way there in a light trot. She has only been here two days so it is completely understandable that she doesn’t yet know where everything is. About 10 minutes later she is under the bleachers, having taken an unexpected shortcut not on the map.
But at least she is here, and she can do her standard-clear-your-head morning run, last done five days ago when she was still in London, and very necessary today, with it being her first full day of lectures.
Massachusetts wasn’t her first choice, but MIT offered a great renewable energy program that she wanted to be a part of, for a year at least. And since it had always been her dream to study in the US, when the MIT opportunity presented itself, Sophie grabbed it with both hands. She was an obvious choice for the program too, her intellect surpassed only by her incredible good looks.
Sophie didn’t look like a nerd though, by any standards. She looked more like the centerfold from one of those taboo magazines that most men wouldn’t admit to having under their beds. The good thing about her though is that she really didn’t seem to know it. Or if she did, it really wasn’t her calling card in any of her social interactions. She was very attractive, no doubt. But she never forced her attractiveness down your throat the way you would expect someone with such striking beauty to do.
Humility as well as a certain regal air, without being pretentious, add to the attraction of Sophie. And needless to say, many a male student, and some females, noticed her at orientation, and they must have already made several mental notes to make a move. She knew why she was here though, and it certainly wasn’t to get involved in any sort of relationship that would last only a year and then be done when she had to go back to England. Such complications didn’t appeal in any way to the savvy 20 year old.
She stretched on the bleachers for about ten minutes, looking around her at the vast emptiness of the track. There was one solitary form on the far end, and if Sophie timed it right, she would be able to say good morning to him on her second lap. She was just a nice girl and made a point of making everybody fe
el more than a little special. She really didn’t care whether you were a janitor or a lunch lady, grounds maintenance worker or a plumber. Her philosophy was simple: everyone was somebody to somebody!
As she approached the man in the grey coveralls, his figure illuminated by the bright floodlights that still lit the track, she noticed that he was very tall. He was almost too tall, and she was suddenly nervous about greeting him and taking his attention away from sweeping the track, something she would later look back on, and it still not make sense. He seemed out of place.
“Why would a statuesque man like him be sweeping a track?
When she gets close to him though he looks up suddenly and she doesn’t know what to do. Should she greet him and just keep on running, or should she stop and strike up a real conversation. Both of these would be easy for her to do, but she cannot really read his face so she isn’t sure which scenario would make him uncomfortable. She knew from her school back in London that maintenance staff tended to keep to themselves, and they only spoke to students when said student had locked themselves out of their dorm and needed help.
“Good morning,” the dark waterfall of a man says suddenly and Sophie stops dead in her tracks.
“Good morning to you sir,” she says, not really breathless because she hasn’t even started to work up a sweat.
“Sir? You are definitely not from around these parts Miss…” he says, looking away. Sophie thinks that she might have embarrassed him by calling him sir, but he was obviously older than her so this seemed more than a little appropriate, regardless of his vocation.
“London, England,” she says, walking up to him now just because she is really curious as to just how tall he really is.
“Kingston, Jamaica,” he says, reaching out a hand to her as she suddenly places the accent. She and a couple of girlfriends had gone to Jamaica last summer, a girls retreat, and the one thing she walked away from that trip with was how thick and heavy the Jamaican accent was. It was instantly recognizable, whether you were in Kingston, London, or Cambridge Massachusetts.
“I’m Sophie,” she says, smiling as her tiny hand is enveloped in his gigantic one.