Midway through a most unfavorably stormy month, he decided to stop his conquest momentarily for some watermelon slices. Taking the first plate he saw, he made his way to the cluster of tables, only to find that none were empty. He considered putting the watermelon back, perhaps, or eating in the bathroom stall, before sighing and shaking his head. That would never work. Watermelon did not keep well in bathroom stalls.

As if by some unseen force of nature, he decided to do something obscenely uncharacteristic. He took a seat in front of someone he vaguely recognized from basket-weaving class without asking, something you or I would most certainly never do. The someone looked up from her scattered array of notes in various colors of pen, highlighter and tribal ink to see who had joined her.

"Salutations!" she smiled brightly.

At the sight of him, most tended to react with repulsion, not welcome. His scholarship status and ungainly, a word which here means "looking as though he got dressed in the dark and forgot to shower every morning" appearance only served to lose him points with any potential friends at this school, leaving him labeled undesirable and that was that. When forced to interact with other students, he was sarcastic and cruel, his only mode of self-defense. When such a mechanism proved unnecessary in this case, he was taken pleasantly aback.

She was pretty.

After several silence-filled moments, she cocked her curl-bedecked head sideways, as if trying very hard to place something.

"You're…Omar?"

"Close. Olaf." He lost the fight not to smile and found himself grinning uncomfortably, like this was something he'd not done many times before.

"Of course, how silly of me. I apologize. Names are not my forte." The girl looked vaguely abashed, and Olaf scrambled to think of a way to reassure her.

"If it helps at all, I have no idea what your name is." At that, he mentally gave himself a very hard kick. He shook his head. "What I mean is—"

She laughed and put her hand on his arm to quiet him. "Kit Snicket."

"Kit," he repeated slowly. "Is that short for anything?"

"No." She shrugged and circled a few choice words on one of her many papers. "Just Kit."

"It's a nice name." Why he couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say today was beyond him. Clearly, his people skills left much to be desired. He sighed inwardly. If this conversation was going anywhere, it would not be because of him.

"What did you say you're studying?" she asked, as if she were a mind-reader or simply very perceptive.

"Oh…theatre. I'm hoping to start my own troupe someday," he said sheepishly. No one had taken care to ask him before, that he could recall. "And what about you?"

"International relations. I think it'd be absolutely fascinating to be a diplomat and see the entire world, don't you?"

"I suppose." Olaf fiddled with bits of watermelon seeds. "Although this world is so corrupt. I can't imagine what about it you'd like to see. Everywhere it's the same, hm?" At the puzzled look she gave him, he added, "Hatred and violence are the same in any language."

"It's not all bad, you know." Kit seemed thoughtful. "If it were, we wouldn't be able to tell the difference."

"How do you mean?"

"If we didn't have evil to compare it to, we wouldn't know what it meant to be good. Without darkness, there can be no light." She said this very matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather or how six became afraid of seven.

"You make it sound so simple." He shook his head.

"It is, isn't it?"

"No." he took on a hard expression and unwittingly tensed. "Perhaps not for everyone."

"What do you mean?" Kit leaned forward, notes temporarily forgotten. In the few minutes of conversation with her, Olaf had already gathered that philosophical conversation was her forte. This was one topic he did not wish to pursue having known her so briefly. Kit was the one semblance of a friend he'd managed to make all semester, and he was in no hurry to lose her. Let her think he was worth her time, if only for one more day.

"Never mind." He abruptly stood, picking up his half-finished fruit plate.

"Wait, Olaf." Kit's features registered perplexity and curiosity. If there was concern, he pretended not to see it. "Don't leave. Talk to me."

"I have Theatre History in ten minutes."

"Clearly, I've offended you somehow…" she made to stand, but in the process scattered her note cards and loose-leaf paper across the table and onto the floor. Reflexively, she hurried to pick them up. After gathering a few strays from under her seat, she rose to see Olaf holding out the rest of her effects in a neatly gathered pile. It made a striking contrast against his rough appearance. Kit reached for her schoolwork, and Olaf dropped to her level quickly. There was a lapse of silence, and she realized his eyes were the shade of green one might use if they were feeling daring while painting a guest room.

"Sometimes, it's not so easy to tell the difference," he said finally. Kit's expression told him that she understood his meaning. Whether this was good or not, Olaf wasn't sure. He straightened to his usual hunch and turned to go.

"Will I see you later?" she called after him, not moving from her spot, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to kneel on the floor holding an entire notebook's worth of paper. He had the opportunity to pretend he had not heard and simply keep walking, as most did to him. He wanted very much to do just that, though he couldn't name why. Olaf pivoted slowly.

"Not if you don't want to."

"And if I do?"

Olaf considered. He had just left her the easiest out in the world and she had refused it. Clearly, that counted for something, and deserved something in return. He did the best he could:

"Very well."

And without another word, he stalked in the direction of the sinister-looking fine arts building.

At this, satisfaction lit her eyes. She intended to finish her conversation with this stranger who did not want to let on that he actually enjoyed company, but that was for another time.

For the moment, Kit was content.