Perfect Match
It's Saturday, and they're studying in the Library. She's sitting near the window and seems to be making a great deal of progress. He's sitting across from her and has read the same sentence at least fifteen times.
He sighs and says, "Give me your hand."
She raises an eyebrow, asks him why, does it anyway.
He takes her hand in one of his and silently traces her love line with the other. Pauses, examines his own. He puts their hands side by side and points.
"Look," he says. "We match."