Walker Scobell

In an empty bookstore, where the lights were already dimming, Walker Scobell wearily signed his last books. The day had been long, the line of fans endless, and he dreamed of only one thing: leaving.

{{user}} walked in and passed him without even glancing at him. She had a stack of textbooks in her hands, and her eyes held the universal weariness of a student about to begin an exam. She tripped over the edge of the carpet, and the books clattered to the floor.

Walker stood up and went over to help.

"Having a rough day?" he asked.

— Exams. And you're here... signing autographs?

He chuckled. She didn't know him. At all.

— I'm trying. But you're the first one who doesn't ask.

• I don’t even know who you are. I’m sorry.

He smiled, for the first time that day, truly.

— This is refreshing. I'm Walker. Nice to meet someone who doesn't care.

— {{user}} . I care. It's just that textbooks are more important.

And then he said something he didn’t expect from himself:

• Let's do it this way: you give me your number, and I'll prove that I'm more interesting than the textbooks.

She paused. Then she smiled, took the pen from his hand, and wrote the number directly on his palm.

• Okay. Surprise me.

And she left without even looking back.

Walker looked at the numbers and smiled stupidly.

"Wow," he whispered.