Free Grey Expectations by Clea Simon Page B

space. ‘It’s Dulcie!’ At that, the woman turned around, and Dulcie saw that, despite the resemblance, it wasn’t her colleague. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’
    The young woman – almost a girl, really – kept staring. Dulcie shrugged. She hadn’t been that rude. Then she grabbed her bag and pushed by Dulcie, out the door. Dulcie watched as she hurried, head down, toward the corner. Exams were hard on everyone. She remembered them well. But Dulcie was willing to bet that it wasn’t academic worries that made that girl run so fast. That pale face had been splotchy, the nose red. That girl had been blinking away tears.
    â€˜I wonder—’ But Dulcie shook off the thought. She had her own friends to worry about. Walking into the coffee house, she waited while her eyes adjusted to the lower light. Five dark heads were crowded around one small table. A paper slipped to the floor, and two of those heads bumped as they bent to retrieve it. Study group. Three other tables held laptops, but none of the heads bent over the keyboards – bent to avoid eye contact with someone who might dare to want to share their table – were blonde. Dulcie made her way to the back. Two more groups had grabbed all the seats, and none of their members looked familiar. On the remaining tables, three more singles hunched over papers or laptops – except for one man, whose face was planted in a book, clearly asleep.
    Dulcie turned. She’d been wrong. Trista wasn’t back here. Unless – no, the bathroom key still hung from the side of the counter. And when Dulcie stepped back out into the sunlight, she saw no sign of her friend there either.
    This was getting ridiculous. ‘Trista?’ Her call had gone direct to voicemail. Maybe that phone call Trista had mentioned was simply lasting longer than she had expected. ‘I’m at the Brew House? We were going to meet?’ She looked around. No sign of her friend on the street. ‘Call me.’
    She clicked her phone shut. Trista had a poor sense of time. Dulcie should have known that ‘fifteen minutes’ really meant more like a half hour. At least.
    Well, there wasn’t anything she could do here. And truth was, with the adrenalin surge from the meeting, she didn’t need any more caffeine. Trista would call her back. For now, she’d head to the library.
    It was reflex, she knew that, heading to the library whenever things were going wrong. It wasn’t a bad reflex for a scholar; Dulcie had made some fantastic academic discoveries while fleeing the pressures of everyday life. The majestic granite building before her was as much a sanctuary as a workplace, she acknowledged as she climbed the stone steps: a hiding place where she felt safe. In truth, with its more than five miles of books stored primarily in its underground stacks, the giant library had more than a little in common with a rabbit’s warren. And she, Dulcie, was beginning to feel a little like a timid bunny.
    For a moment she flashed on Mr Grey, and how he’d pounce on a rucked-up blanket, his feline instincts urging him to flush out any prey that was hiding in its tunnels. Maybe that’s what Esmé was trying to do – flush Dulcie out of her routine and into trying new things. The thought of her young cat warmed her; the little animal wasn’t trying to be disruptive. It was her nature to be young, playful, and fierce.
    â€˜We can’t fight who we are,’ Dulcie murmured to herself as she dug out her ID. Flashing it at the guard, she felt her spirits lift. A different setting might help her to finally get through those hated essays. She might even take a break from that one collection and see what else she could read. All she had to find were one or maybe two more good literary examples. Never mind the beautiful spring weather, what Dulcie needed to get the sap flowing was likely right here in front