I considered blogging about this but it's not entirely writing-related although books are mentioned. Here it is; something that happened this afternoon.
I hadn't visited the Central Library in a while; three weeks and one day to be exact, which is why there was a fine to pay. 80p in total. How would I feed the children? Oh that's right; I don't have any.
All the boring chores called me; paying council tax, buying electricity credit, grocery shopping...and I really didn't need to carry home a bag of books so I promised myself I'd only have a quick look at the new releases. And maybe a pootle around the 'classic literature' shelves, to look intelligent.
Austen, Bronte, Dickens, Nabokov...ah. I'd only registered Lolita, wasn't entirely aware of his other works, although I knew he wasn't a one-book-wonder. Vaguely aware of a presence behind me, I knelt on the floor, glad my interest in N-surnamed authors meant I could have a rest. Late nights combined with early mornings are not for me.
I'd just returned a volume of Anais Nin's collected works and was in the librarian's way so I shuffled to one side, not fully conscious of him...only the fact it was a him. He had that male aura. Tall...but then everyone's taller than me, even when crouched on the floor.
We both stood at the same time and I inclined my head in his direction as I always do when I hear melted chocolate on ripe strawberries. "Sorry?"
"I said did you enjoy Anais Nin?"
"Oh. Um, well..." I'm sure I blushed. It didn't help that the taller, lankier version of Henry Cavill had a smile exactly like the actor too; all dimples and teeth. "How can I put this...?" I suspected he'd read her too and that was why he laughed. "It was a bit...what's the word? Mechanical?" Me with my wet, blonde hair, slashed down the centre by an inch of black roots like a tramline in the snow.
Stop stroking your hair, I told myself. You're doing it again. You always stroke your hair when you meet a man who makes you feel girly. Stop. Stroking. Your. Hair.
"Ah, yes." Still laughing, he nodded in recognition. "She is a bit like that." He recommended Under a Glass Bell, said that was far superior. I told him I'd just that morning started reading Delta of Venus. The nameless librarian said her novels are more enjoyable than her short erotica, which was, of course, written for a 'nameless patron' who wanted Nin to "Concentrate on sex. Leave out the poetry."
"That spoils it," I said. "In fact, listen to this..." And I pulled my copy out of my bag, read to him from the preface of Delta of Venus:
And from Nin to Nabokov. Protesting against friends who tell us, "But that book's about an old man shagging a child!" Have those people even read it?
And Jane Eyre too. I related the story of how I only read it because I had flu that week and was too weak to lift the copy of Anna Karenina my father bought me to see me through my recuperation, even in paperback.
He hadn't read Jane Eyre...at least, only the first thirty pages.
"Good," I said. "Save yourself the trouble and burn every copy in existence. I hate it, hate it, hate it."
English literature is too 'happy ever after' for his tastes, anyway. He much prefers Russian and French. Passions run high, everyone dies in the end. You believe in nothing, God punishes you. Commit adultery, you end up under a train. Fuck a child, you die alone, your former paramour expiring in childbirth before she's even out of her teens. He much prefers the Marquis de Sade to "That bloody Jane Austen. She's awful."
Every synapse in my brain screamed yes, yes, yes! Just one more word, one more sentence, and one of us would have...done something. Extended an invitation of some sort, perhaps? Not even a date or a phone number, just a hand on an arm or a tentative step closer.
But someone called him away and I thought, perhaps when I check my books out, he'll be the one to-
No, only women behind the desk. Ah well, I thought. The moment's passed.
I looked around, trying to divest myself of the appearance of a woman who was looking for someone and spotted him, over by the computers, explaining something to a technophobe who needed help with them thar crazy internets. I passed some time fiddling with something in my handbag but reached the limits of my timewasting ability. One moment longer and I would have crossed from 'this is your chance to come and speak to me before I leave' into loitering.
So I headed for the glass staircase where light bounces off every surface. Maybe some of that light bounced off my belt buckle or the zip of my jacket because he looked up at that exact moment and our eyes met. I swear he faltered, but I carried on walking and came home.
***
I hadn't visited the Central Library in a while; three weeks and one day to be exact, which is why there was a fine to pay. 80p in total. How would I feed the children? Oh that's right; I don't have any.
All the boring chores called me; paying council tax, buying electricity credit, grocery shopping...and I really didn't need to carry home a bag of books so I promised myself I'd only have a quick look at the new releases. And maybe a pootle around the 'classic literature' shelves, to look intelligent.
Austen, Bronte, Dickens, Nabokov...ah. I'd only registered Lolita, wasn't entirely aware of his other works, although I knew he wasn't a one-book-wonder. Vaguely aware of a presence behind me, I knelt on the floor, glad my interest in N-surnamed authors meant I could have a rest. Late nights combined with early mornings are not for me.
I'd just returned a volume of Anais Nin's collected works and was in the librarian's way so I shuffled to one side, not fully conscious of him...only the fact it was a him. He had that male aura. Tall...but then everyone's taller than me, even when crouched on the floor.
We both stood at the same time and I inclined my head in his direction as I always do when I hear melted chocolate on ripe strawberries. "Sorry?"
"I said did you enjoy Anais Nin?"
"Oh. Um, well..." I'm sure I blushed. It didn't help that the taller, lankier version of Henry Cavill had a smile exactly like the actor too; all dimples and teeth. "How can I put this...?" I suspected he'd read her too and that was why he laughed. "It was a bit...what's the word? Mechanical?" Me with my wet, blonde hair, slashed down the centre by an inch of black roots like a tramline in the snow.
Stop stroking your hair, I told myself. You're doing it again. You always stroke your hair when you meet a man who makes you feel girly. Stop. Stroking. Your. Hair.
"Ah, yes." Still laughing, he nodded in recognition. "She is a bit like that." He recommended Under a Glass Bell, said that was far superior. I told him I'd just that morning started reading Delta of Venus. The nameless librarian said her novels are more enjoyable than her short erotica, which was, of course, written for a 'nameless patron' who wanted Nin to "Concentrate on sex. Leave out the poetry."
"That spoils it," I said. "In fact, listen to this..." And I pulled my copy out of my bag, read to him from the preface of Delta of Venus:
Maybe I'm flattering myself that my reading had anything to do with the enraptured look on the librarian's face, but he agreed with me, that was how it should be.
And from Nin to Nabokov. Protesting against friends who tell us, "But that book's about an old man shagging a child!" Have those people even read it?
And Jane Eyre too. I related the story of how I only read it because I had flu that week and was too weak to lift the copy of Anna Karenina my father bought me to see me through my recuperation, even in paperback.
He hadn't read Jane Eyre...at least, only the first thirty pages.
"Good," I said. "Save yourself the trouble and burn every copy in existence. I hate it, hate it, hate it."
English literature is too 'happy ever after' for his tastes, anyway. He much prefers Russian and French. Passions run high, everyone dies in the end. You believe in nothing, God punishes you. Commit adultery, you end up under a train. Fuck a child, you die alone, your former paramour expiring in childbirth before she's even out of her teens. He much prefers the Marquis de Sade to "That bloody Jane Austen. She's awful."
Every synapse in my brain screamed yes, yes, yes! Just one more word, one more sentence, and one of us would have...done something. Extended an invitation of some sort, perhaps? Not even a date or a phone number, just a hand on an arm or a tentative step closer.
But someone called him away and I thought, perhaps when I check my books out, he'll be the one to-
No, only women behind the desk. Ah well, I thought. The moment's passed.
I looked around, trying to divest myself of the appearance of a woman who was looking for someone and spotted him, over by the computers, explaining something to a technophobe who needed help with them thar crazy internets. I passed some time fiddling with something in my handbag but reached the limits of my timewasting ability. One moment longer and I would have crossed from 'this is your chance to come and speak to me before I leave' into loitering.
So I headed for the glass staircase where light bounces off every surface. Maybe some of that light bounced off my belt buckle or the zip of my jacket because he looked up at that exact moment and our eyes met. I swear he faltered, but I carried on walking and came home.
