Imperial College, the lecture hall.
When Russell arrived, Mary was already sitting in her usual seat.
Her hairstyle today was a little different from usual—that head of soft silver hair wasn't tied up, but instead left to fall loosely over her shoulders.
The ends curled slightly inward, glowing with a warm, gentle sheen in the morning light.
A few stray strands drifted down around her cheeks, swaying softly with each tilt of the girl's head.
Russell froze for a moment.
At that very instant Mary happened to look up, meeting his gaze, her eyes curving into a faint, graceful smile.
Like a fleeting glimpse of something breathtaking.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Russell sat down beside her and asked offhandedly, "Why'd you wear your hair down today?"
At that, Mary didn't answer right away.
The girl tilted her head, her azure eyes watching him, as though seriously pondering the question.
"Because... today is a special day?" she said, her tone carrying a hint of teasing.
Russell raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Special?"
"Mm," Mary nodded, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the delicate, pale half of her earlobe.
"A special day calls for a special look, doesn't it?"
Especially when there's a special person, too.
That was the line the girl, held back by shyness, couldn't quite bring herself to say aloud.
She said it so matter-of-factly that Russell instinctively found himself trying to recall what day it actually was.
Not a holiday, not an exam day, and certainly not any date worth marking on the calendar.
It was just an ordinary Thursday.
Oh, right. Thursday.
Russell suddenly understood, and looked at her, caught somewhere between laughter and exasperation.
"Just because of that?"
"Isn't that enough?"
Mary blinked, countering with a question of her own.
"Or... has a certain someone forgotten?"
"Of course not," Russell said without a moment's hesitation, then reached into his backpack and drew out an oil-paper bag.
"It's just that, now I'm suddenly a little worried—whether what I made will even live up to expectations this heavy."
Mary looked down at the oil-paper bag, but didn't reach for it right away.
She leaned in slightly, drawing closer like a curious cat, the tip of her nose almost brushing against the layer of oil-paper wrapped around the food.
A few loose strands of hair slid down from her shoulder, hanging over the edge of the desk, glowing with a soft silver light in the morning sun.
"Mm, it smells good," she said softly, then lifted her eyes to gaze at Russell.
"Did you make it yourself?"
"Of course," Russell nudged the oil-paper bag toward her. "It was a promise, wasn't it?"
The girl's eyes curved into a smile, and only then did she reach out to take the bag.
The paper bag still held a trace of warmth; through the thin paper, she could almost feel the shape and heat of the food inside.
Her slender fingertips carefully untied the loosely knotted twine, and then, slowly, she spread the oil-paper open.
A sandwich lay quietly upon it.
The toast, grilled to perfection, was an even golden-brown, its edges lightly crisp.
Tucked in the middle was a tender yellow fried egg, caramel-colored bacon, and a few leaves of crisp green lettuce.
The oils had seeped into the grain of the bread, glistening enticingly in the morning light.
Mary gazed at the toast, exquisite as a model, and reached out to gently touch its surface, as though checking the temperature.
"Well then, I won't stand on ceremony," she said softly, as if declaring the start of some important rite.
Mary picked up the sandwich and took a very small bite.
Her chewing was slow, meticulous.
Watching her, Russell felt, for reasons he couldn't explain, a little nervous.
"How is it?"
Mary didn't answer right away. She chewed a couple more times, then raised her hand, lightly covering her lips with her fingertips—an exceedingly ladylike gesture, meant to conceal the act of chewing.
"Mm," she nodded. "It's good."
Just those two words, ever so light, yet somehow warm, enough to let Russell's suspended heart settle back into place.
"That's a relief," he smiled. "I was worried the fried egg might be overcooked."
The portion Russell had prepared wasn't much, and Mary soon finished the dainty little sandwich in its entirety.
Though she was left wanting a little more, she wouldn't go on craving beyond that.
Some things are all the more unforgettable precisely because they leave behind a touch of regret.
Like the arms of Venus, or like this sandwich—a portion barely fit to count as a snack.
"Not at all," Mary shook her head, the smile at the corner of her lips as fresh as morning dew. "Everything was just right."
She took another small bite, savoring it carefully.
The savory salt of the bacon, the tender smoothness of the fried egg, the crispness of the lettuce, and the wheaty fragrance of the toast itself, all melded perfectly in her mouth, layer upon layer.
It was no delicacy of mountain or sea, merely the most ordinary of breakfasts.
But to Mary, it was far more delicious than any of those expensive, exquisite desserts at the Phedon Tea Room.
She suddenly understood why those flashy, impractical restaurants had so many patrons.
Some things—what you're really tasting is the atmosphere.
·
The morning's classes passed quickly.
Mary listened attentively, her notes packed dense and full, occasionally turning her head to quietly ask Russell about some term she hadn't caught.
Her hair would sometimes brush against his shoulder, carrying a faint fragrance.
Russell found it hard to concentrate fully.
Not that it was ever particularly easy for him to begin with.
But today was a little different.
It wasn't because of her distractions, but because—today she seemed especially... how to put it, vivid. Alive.
Not the usual measured, proper smile.
But the way she couldn't help laughing out loud when he told a bad joke, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
The way she'd secretly glance over at him when he yawned, then nonchalantly draw her gaze back.
The way, when the Professor called on someone to answer, she'd lightly nudge the back of his hand with her little finger, signaling which page the answer was on.
Those moments, so tiny as to be all but negligible, were like motes of dust lit up by sunlight, floating gently in the air.
Carrying something that softened the heart—something indescribable, impossible to name.
By the time the afternoon classes ended, the horizon had already been dyed with the orange-red of sunset.
The two of them packed up their things and walked out the school gate as usual.
"The interview's the day after tomorrow, isn't it?" Mary stopped in her tracks, turning to look at Russell.
"Nervous?"
"It's fine," Russell said. "I've already got a good idea of what to say, and I've given Fleet Street a heads-up too."
"That's good." The girl nodded, drawing her cream-white cashmere coat a little more tightly around her shoulders.
The evening wind carried a chill, lifting a few of the girl's loose strands of hair.
"Well then, I'll be looking forward to the paper the day after tomorrow," the girl said softly.
"Rather than looking forward to that, you should look forward to your father's expression when he sees it," Russell said.
At that, Mary couldn't help but laugh.
That smile looked especially gentle in the dusk.
The girl turned and walked toward the carriage, took a couple of steps, then looked back again.
"Russell."
"Hm?"
"Today... I had a really good time."
She said it very softly, so soft it was nearly scattered by the wind.
Then she quickly turned away, lifting the hem of her skirt, and hurried up into the carriage.
The curtain fell, hiding that slender figure from view.
Russell stood where he was, watching the carriage rumble off into the distance, vanishing around the street corner.
The evening wind blew past, bringing with it the crisp cold peculiar to an early-winter night.
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