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I noticed the glances the third week of class. Or was it late on the second? I don't know, the class was on Friday and sometimes the end of one week runs into the beginning of the next. Class blends with class, and the only thing you really remember is which assignment is due next week, and that there's a section of the textbook to read - no one will actually read it of course, beyond to find the information needed for the assignment, but it's assigned just the same.

Whenever it happened, I got this feeling that the dingo in the seat ahead of me was looking at me occasionally. Maybe "glanced" is a more appropriate term than "looking." I hadn't noticed him before - we were then still in that early-semester period where some students sit in a different seat every class-meeting, and the only classmate you recognise is the old guy who is always trying to engage the professor in a conversation. In this particular class, there were two or three of guys of this type - a scruffy rat, a gruff-voiced bear, and a fat muskrat, whose paws were continually feeling over the top of his head where the fur had thinned with his aging, in addition to a young otter in the back of class who the professor called on often; she'd had him in other classes presumably. These guys were easy to notice. But the dingo had escaped my attention.

I dubbed him Matt Damon-Imposter, because he looked like the actor in a sense. Yes, I know Matt Damon isn't a dingo, so the comparison can only go so far. But somewhere in the facial structure there was enough of a resemblance that I associated the two immediately. Not odd necessarily; I was always seeing people in classes or on campus who reminded me of this or that celebrity - the result of watching too many television dramas, perhaps. He was of average height; had an athletic build, and always dressed in shorts and some sort of shirt, sometimes topped with a Nike track jacket.

I wondered why I hadn't noticed him before. He was, I supposed, the best-looking guy in the class, although admittedly, there was not much competition. What really had me wondering, though, were the glances. Was I imagining them? It was not unusual for students in the class to look at each other during the lecture - which wasn't really a lecture. The professor, Mrs Logan, was unusual among professors at my university. I had liked her almost from the first day, partly because of her dry, witty sense of humour, and partly because like I, she was a coyote, and one always feels a twinge of kinship when encountering others of one's own species. What really cemented her worth as a professor for me - and, I think, for the others - was that Mrs Logan did not subscribe to the teaching style of any other lecture-hall professor I'd encountered, which was to say that unlike the others, whose style was to bring up powerpoints and then drone on about them in never-ending monologues until the time was up, Mrs Logan would introduce a historical topic or two, talk about it for a few minutes, and then engage the class in a lengthy, all-including discussion that usually lasted the remainder of class. It was extremely intellectually stimulating, and even if it did allow the old guys the chance to elaborate on their own opinions, there was always the feeling that you could say whatever you liked, so long as you were contributing to the conversation - Mrs Logan said she did not care what we were thinking, so long as we were thinking.

Because of this lengthy discussion, heads were often turning to better view whoever was talking, which was why I at first doubted that the dingo was paying attention to me specifically. But still - I couldn't shake the feeling that he kept looking at me. Why else would the sandy-furred head keep turning my direction; why else did one of the triangular ears stay flicked back towards where I sat. When I participated in the discussions, his eyes and ears were always on me, but he did not always give others of the classmates the same attention when they spoke.

I started to wonder. Was this a sign of - conscious or otherwise - attraction? Statistically, that he was a boy-who-liked-boys was doubtful; our university might be in a bluish city in a red state, but it was still a conservative stronghold. We had a pride group, but it was so pitifully tiny that I'd come to conclude that most of the campus LGBT students kept to themselves. The members of the pride group - a group I myself did not belong to, as I'd found its pawful of members to be a very dull sort of people; they met only twice a month, and even those meetings were frequently cancelled - were in the habit of wearing small rubber bracelets of bright colours, with PRIDE and other words printed on them. I experienced a small surge of hope when I noticed that the dingo wore a similar bracelet, but when I carefully narrowed my gaze on his wrist, I found that rather than a pride statement, the bracelet featured only the word "Melbourne" - obviously an Australian reference.

Enough of this. The modern world has plenty of options for those who want to learn more about someone. The next time Mrs Logan was handing out papers she'd graded, I listened carefully as she handed out each essay, calling the name of the student. I pricked my ears forward, listening and watching. She went through the otter and the scruffy rat and a mongoose who had to be a football player, judging by his build, when she called "Sean? Sean Vicksburg?" And the dingo rose, thanked her, and took the paper.

Sean Vicksburg. I had what I needed.

Locating Sean Vicksburg on Facebook proved unsurprisingly easy. Back at my house, I plopped down across my bed, pulling up Facebook on my laptop. Typed the name up in the search bar. There he was -

The facebook account was, admittedly, not overly useful. His privacy settings hid most of his posts and photos, so like a detective who is missing most of his clues, I had to search through what little was provided for an answer. I checked his music section. Anything suspicious? Journey, Michael Jackson, Maroon Five. All ordinary enough. Katy Perry, now? I considered that. I had read once that any guy who claimed to like Katy Perry was probably not straight, but that was stereotyping, and besides, my brother listened to Katy Perry - and he was the guy who'd spent the whole last weekend elaborating on how hot he thought Sandra Bullock was in Gravity. No, not enough to go on.

I scrolled through his timeline. Not much there. The most recent photo was also the profile photo, a snapshot of Sean with a couple of ferrets, a guy and a girl. It was one of those photos you more often see girls use as profile pics than guys, a grainy capture of everyone grinning dopily at the camera, not flattering in the least. Perhaps though, the intent of such photos was not to be flattering but rather to capture the light-hearted feel of the moment. Either way. The next photo showed Sean with another guy - no, not like that, just a casual shot of he and a kangaroo leaning casually against a wall and smiling suavely at the camera. After that, not much of interest - one of Sean with some sort of cool-looking motorcycle - no, it was an offroad motorbike, but that was two years old, and nothing of interest followed it.

One place left to check. I clicked on "About." Yes, he was single - but, damn. The dreaded "Interested in Women" specification. Nope, forget it.

I closed the page.

For almost a week I forgot about Matt Damon-Imposter. I'd clearly been imagining the flirtation. Prior to that, I'd almost started looking forward to History just to see what he'd do, but now, what was the point? There were papers to write, exams to study for. No time to worry about straight-boy Dingos.

Until the following Wednesday. I rolled up to the building door, picked up my longboard, and walked through the doors; across the lobby, into the classroom. Laid the longboard against the wall (it amused me the way the old bear, entering later, glanced at my board in the same big-eyed way someone might look after finding a stranger in their bed; the feeling of "what is that doing here?"). To my disgust, the Belgian exchange guy, a sleepy-eyed badger, was sitting in the seat I normally took. Oh well - no glances with Sean today. I took a seat in the back row, near where the otter and his friends sat.

Except I didn't feel like staying there. Mrs Logan was hard of hearing; she had to strain to understand students in the back, and besides, if I was truly honest with myself, I was still curious about Sean. Would anyone notice if I moved? Or question why?

Screw it. I hoisted my backpack, walked down the row, down the steps, and shortly thereafter, slid into a seat three seats down from Sean. He glanced my way, then looked down.

Within the first half-hour my disinterest had evaporated. The glances continued, and I began to play along. My own muzzle started to turn his direction, my ears pricked his way, and if I saw him return the glance, I'd smile slyly and glance back to my book, or to Mrs Logan. My mind was racing: was this some kind of subtle unspoken flirtation? I had never had a boyfriend (nor a girlfriend, for that matter); the language of flirting was something entirely foreign to me; I had to interpret it in the same way one interprets someone speaking a foreign tongue, by way of guesswork and analysation of body language. Was the ear tipped my way a sign?

Towards the end of class, I caught him looking at me directly. Perhaps I should have stared right back, to indicate my own interest, but instead, I flicked my ears back and pulled out my notebook, as Mrs Logan was discussing something I thought worthy of taking notes on. The dingo stared at me for another few seconds, then did the exact same thing. I considered that. He had just repeated an action of mine. Did it mean something? He could just have been reminded that he should have been taking notes, but still, that would indicate he was paying attention to me specifically.

At the end of class I entertained a vague hope that'd he'd look to or talk to me again, but it was in vain, and I left class feeling mystified. His fb account had said he'd been on it for five years. That was long enough ago that perhaps he hadn't known he'd liked guys when he'd created it and specified his attraction to women, right? As I skated away, my eyes wandered, searching for him, but he left the building by a different exit.

I passed various students, my nose burning as I passed the spot on edge of campus where smokers hung out. Glancing at each person who passed. How many of them held the secret of attraction to one's own gender, I wondered. Nearing the spot where the paved trail left campus, the last building, the circular dorm hall my sister had lived at her freshman year. A big wolf passed on his own longboard, and I watched as he turned off in the direction of the dorm, attention following the attractive square-jawed muzzle, the poorly-hidden muscles of his arms and legs. Another hot guy - I licked my chops.

Thinking about Sean or the hot wolf made me envious of the guys who lived in places like San Francisco or the capital, where gayness - or merely LGBT people, as I still considered myself some degree of bisexual - was so common in some neighbourhoods that to be straight was almost the exception. I'd read recently some reviews of restaurants and cafes in Frisco, ones that catered primarily to LGBT clientele, and wondered wistfully on what it would be like to live in a place where you could see an attractive guy and actually have a chance that he might be interested in you, as opposed to living where I did, where connecting with a guy who liked guys was something of a shot in the dark, so much rarer. It was why I'd finally joined OK Cupid - with the bisexual option - although that had been a largely unsuccessful venture, as most of the girls I viewed were overly religious and/or disliked LGBT, most of the guys wanted only sex, and the few of each gender who did not possess those limiting qualities did not respond to messages when I attempted to contact them. So I was left with conventional dating, and all the difficulties involved therein.

Yet, it was not impossible. Sean....

I was the sort of person who thought dating advice websites silly, but after class that day, I threw aside my misgivings in favour of reading every article on guy-on-guy flirtation and flirtation body language that I could find. Analysation of eye-contact and ear-flicking and leg posture and tail wagging; and yes, here and there were things I thought I'd seen Sean do. Sharing glances; copying movements. I couldn't help it. I was further convinced that something was flickering between myself and the dingo. All in my mind? Quite possibly. But it was fun to imagine nonetheless.

I eagerly awaited Friday; anticipating more subtle ear-flicks, glancing away and smiling slyly as only a coyote can do. Maybe even making some kind of conversation, on something trivial first, just to initiate contact. After all, even if he was actually straight, gaining new friends was hardly something I'd avoid. Most of all though, the possibility of making contact with another guy who liked guys was thrilling, and my mind created numerous fantastical situations in which we ended up talking lengthily after class, maybe going out for dinner later to the Sonic near my house, or to my favourite wine boutique for drinks.

Disappointment awaited me on Friday. Sean showed up over a half-hour late, and as it was a review-for-exams day, Mrs Logan dismissed us early. One or two glances, perhaps more, but not enough to count for anything, and few enough that doubt once again reigned supreme. Plus, I'd have to wait almost a week to again attend the class; to gain another chance at seeing if my suspicions were based on reality.

Over the weekend I pondered my predicament, if it could even be called that. Perhaps I should wait until after college to worry about dating, after which I could just travel to places where LGBT folks were more common. Or perhaps I'd meet someone else on campus (a few fantasies involving the hunky wolf were shamelessly entertained). Even with those ideas to consider, my mind still strayed to the cute dingo, and to my uncertainties concerning him.

Maybe, just maybe, I should get over my nervousness and talk to the guy. Talk about nothing - the class, the field-trip assignment to a historic location Mrs Logan had assigned - sooner or later, the truth would come out, especially if I had read the glances correctly.

Wednesday arrived. I attended my earlier class, excited about what might happen at history, but calm too. Whatever happened - whatever happened. When I walked into class, he wasn't there, but he took a seat two spots from mine when he did arrive, and I dutifully turned my ears and feet in his direction. I listened to Mrs Logan, outline the exam, but one ear was still tucked in the dingo's direction. One or two glances; then the coyote was writing the exam questions on the whiteboard, and explaining the usual rules: be quiet and polite; write your answers, then leave.

The exam was open note, and I was a good listener, so defining concepts or historical notables was easy. Glance at Sean - no, he was still writing. Answer another question, glance at the board, flip through your notes, repeat. Glance at Sean.

Half an hour passed. I neared the last question. The Dingo's muzzle was in his book, looking up something. Oh well. All in my mind -

The sandy muzzle turned up, brown eyes meeting mine. For the first time, we looked at each other, ears up, eyes intent, and no one flicked ears or glanced down in embarrassment. Not an embarrassed staring, just examining, searching, comprehending, as if Mrs Logan and the classmates had vanished, leaving just the two of us to study each other.

Then, just slightly; barely perceivable, the corners of his muzzle turned into a hint of a smile, and I realised I was doing the same. My tail gave the slightest of a tapping against my seat.

His tail matched mine, and we smiled at each other, and then, simultaneously, our eyes dropped back to the test. One question left to answer -

My head was spinning, my emotions wondering, as I finished the test. Quietly I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook, and wrote my name and phone number on it. I thrust the notebook into my backback, closed it, stood. Took a deep breath. I was pretty certain now as to what I had seen; what the glance we'd shared had meant, but still, I was taking a risk -

As I walked past him I subtly dropped the little fragment of paper onto his desk. I did not look back; I kept my ears forward. Perhaps he looked up at me as I descended the stairs; perhaps his muzzle was still pointed towards me as I laid my test on Mrs Logan's desk, grabbed the longboard, and exited. Perhaps he didn't.

Because whether he did or did not look up did not matter.

The truth is, I reflect, it doesn't matter whether he was looking at me or not, or whether the long look we exchanged meant anything, or whether he responds to my note or not. We might date for ten years, or never speak a word to each other, and yet the result is the same. Whether for good, or for bad, or merely beyond that, we have shared something. We had played a part, however trivial or pivotal, in the consequential dramas of our respective lives, and in doing so have altered each other's experiences. Every person who enters one's life plays a role therein, and alters the future, however small the effect may be. Whether or not anything comes of this is irrelevant. Either way, through this exchange of glances and wondering insecurities in Mrs Logan's history class, Sean and I have altered each other's history.

In a sense, we are history.

Back on the bike path, a fox and cheetah couple walk by, paw in paw. I glance at them, see the history being created, and smile.