Samson Nurdwel, a professor at Elite University, is old and leathery. His skin hangs from his lanky, bony frame, like an old t-shirt. The pocket of his sport jacket contains notes, bran muffin crumbs, and chewed-on pencils without erasers. His eyes are small, dark, and contain sparks of intelligence. The three curly wisps of smoke on his head slant to the left and tend to claw passersby.

One morning as his feet clanked across the yellow-stained floor of the darkly lit hall, his thoughts were immersed in the formulas of one of the books he carried. He didn’t notice her walking towards him. The gentle squeak of her nurse shoes drifted past him like a warm breeze. They almost didn’t notice one another. Almost.

As they passed, there was a silver flash, and a sharp burn that caused her eye to shut, as she fell to the linoleum. Startled by the sound of her screech, and rocketing six feet in the air, he let go of the books in his arms and came crashing to the ground like the meteors they depict.

"My eye!" she howled, "I can’t see!"

Looking up, he was strangled by the beauty before him. She was clad in white laboratory clothes. Her long hair was rusty-white and pulled back in a tight bun. Thick, black glasses encircled and magnified her chocolate eyes.

"Why don’t you watch where your hair is going," she said.

"Um, yes, well I am very sorry," he stammered, "please excuse my hair, I hope your eye is not too badly hurt." He ran his hand across his now sweating brow and pushed his hair back. "It tends to go where it wants. It has a mind of its own, you know, I am very sorry." "Let me assist you," and with bones creaking, he helped her to her feet. "Allow me to make it up to you, may I purchase you a bran muffin from the commons? They are quite delicious."

"Uh, no, thanks, I have to get back to the lab," she said, and gathering herself, shuffled down the passage.

Samson watched as she rounded the corner. "Gone," he thought. His frail heart nearly beating out of his chest, he picked up his books and continued down the hall to his office.

The next day, Samson arrived to his office early. He rushed to the hall where he had seen her. He proceeded to walk down the passage, hoping that he would run into her again. Sweeping his hair back, he reached the end, and frustrated, he returned to his office resolving to return in five minutes. For three days, he kept up his routine of walking up and down the yellow tile. But he failed to see her again. Downhearted, he returned to his formulas and charts, and forgot his run in with the angel in white.

Two months had passed, and while gnawing on his daily bran, and studying the effects of comet dust on the atmosphere, someone spoke;

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

"Huh? Um, no," he grumbled, not looking up.

"Thank you," the voice replied.

Looking up to drink from his prune juice, his heart stopped. There she was, sitting and smiling, her eyes staring into his soul. His heart stopped, and he tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was air.

"May I have a piece of your muffin?" she asked, and before he could answer, she grabbed it from his claw- like grip, and shoved it in her mouth. "Hello, I’m Delilah, I believe we’ve met before." she chewed.

"Um, yes, I," he started, "I’m Professor Nurdwel, uh, Samson Nurdwel."

And that’s how it began. They say that Samson’s strength lies in his hair, well, you be the judge.

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