Reviewed countless times, the logic of her algorithms was flawless, but still Ann was working late at the library. Or she appeared to be. She was, in fact, rendering pixelated hearts on her graphing paper as she stared at him. He wasn't in her department, so she didn't know his name. But she knew the angle of his jaw and the line of his neck. She knew that in approximately 3.65 minutes, he'd pull a bottle of Tropicana orange juice from his canvas bag and proceed to sip from it for the remaining 1.25 hours he'd be at the computer station. She knew that he was perfect within an error margin of .01% and that he was out of her league. Secretly, she hoped that she possessed the skill of movie nerds. The skill to unpin her tightly wound hair, remove her glasses and be strikingly beautiful. Subtract the makeup crew, hair team, wardrobe department, and genetic lottery, however, and she knew her odds of winning his attention were incalculably small.
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