A/N: This story may or may not make sense-- it's a style I wanted to try out and it's also one AM, so... you have been forewarned.
The man that she may or may not love, depending on the day and how much time she has to think about it, is standing by a window. Sunlight is entwining with his beard like golden filigree, and the man she may or may not love is now looking at her. Now she is giving him a professional nod. Now he is giving her one. Now he is speaking, and she is listening. The woman who may or may not love the man who is standing by the window happens to be standing in the doorway; it is not apparent whether she is coming or going. This is symbolism. Remember it.
The woman in the doorway moves towards the man by the window and begins to sort his papers. She has moved towards him. This is symbolism too, but nothing will ever resound louder as the way the man standing by the window casually turns his back to her. That is what she will remember.
The man that the woman may or may not love is still speaking to her, but she has now stopped listening. Her eyes are watching her hands glide across stacks of parchment, her eyes are watching small words fly by and she is struggling to make sense of them. She wonders at how similar her life has been. Black and white. Good and bad. It has all gone by so quickly. Wasn't she just yesterday his student? Wasn't he just yesterday hiring her? Things are changing. But there is one thing that never will.
And that is that the woman standing by the doorway will always, as long as she lives, neither love nor not love the man standing by the window. This thought falls in her head and shoves the symbolism away. And now the man standing by the window has turned towards her. And now she is looking up and listening again. His words are sweet like syrup and she is slowly melting. She has had time to think about it. At the moment, the woman no longer coming or going is in love with the man who lives in the shadow of symbolism.
And now she is standing by the window too and now he has a hand on her shoulder, though the woman now standing by the window doesn't know how it got there. The woman with the black hair has just looked up into the man's blue eyes. So blue is what she thinks. Crazy blue. Reckless blue. Remember it.
And now his tongue is down her throat and she's not sure how it got there, but all the woman formerly standing in limbo knows is that it feels good and at the moment she loves him. She just hopes that the man who is always turning away knows it.