The Specimen

15 Minute Write

The communication breakdown hadn’t helped. I had assumed that a driving licence would be sufficient for ID, but apparently, only a passport will do for registration. At least the prim, hard-to-age woman had warmed to me. She’d tapped my identity away into her computer, just for it to spit out a blank white card. Perhaps she saw the sweat beads on my forehead and had taken pity. Why was I feeling like this? I thought everything past getting in would be a cinch, yet I found myself shaking. Everyone’s eyes were on my every move. My face, now a traffic light red, was clearly telling me to stop. Everywhere lay trip hazards, condescending looks, and secret rituals a library virgin would be instantly flummoxed by.

This is why I ended up right in the middle of the row, with people on either side able to directly see what a charlatan I was from what I was doing. Each minute movement, sniff, keyboard tap was directed at me. You might be wondering why I was here then? Putting myself through a masochistic humiliation? I was, of course, interested in someone.

​You see, the library was on the way to work. I’d pass it every day. It was sunken below street level, with large plate-glass windows. This meant you could see the busy students below. Before, the library was just another building. I never thought of the people there, what they studied, or even why. But the day I noticed her, everything changed. How could I have missed her? She was radiant, always in the same seat, every morning, when I passed. I got to know what she wore and her sense of style. I could see she liked her coffee black (did they usually allow drinks in libraries?) She used a MacBook, not a PC. Sometimes she had her hair tied up, sometimes in plaits tied around her head, never loose. She always wore a bright silk scarf tied around her neck. Was she hiding something? I gave her a name. I’m too embarrassed to tell you.

​She was the reason I found myself in a foreign land, unable to speak the language. But fear, shyness, and awkwardness were hardly what I wanted her to see when our eyes first properly met. But now, there was little choice. And she, somehow from all of my stumbling and confusion and lack of a plan, was right there, ten meters from me - I could see her bent head above the small shelf that separated us.

​I’d been there for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only two minutes, and I needed to make eye contact. I just knew when our eyes met (what colour eyes did she have? Were they kind, or were they wicked?) that would be it. That would be the locked-on contact, communication established. But how would I initiate this? Should I cough? Would she look at me, raise a finger to her lips, and shush me? Would she smile as she realised what an incredible specimen she was looking at?

I didn’t know what to do. Imposter syndrome chilled my veins. I hadn’t even managed to open my laptop. So I pushed the cool metal of the screen away from me and up.

​“ You total wanker“, screamed the speaker as the damn thing woke up. YouTube - that moronic guy I couldn’t stop watching had just announced my arrival. Yes, what an incredible specimen I was.

Museo Reina Sofía, Madrid. 2025. Nikon z8