“And why’s that?”Ms.Romance asked.
“For the smut!”
The holy zeal in the romance author’s eyes could have thrown sparks.“First of all,” she said, sitting up straighter, “Not all romances have ‘smut.’But if they do, then—like every other tool at the author’s disposal—it shows characters not only pursuing pleasure but their own growth as human beings.What do they like?Who are they becoming?Romance novels can reflect all the different ideas of what love can be: sweetness or spice; fluff or thrills; or all of the above!In fact,” she continued, “it’s notaboutthe sex, although there canbesex.Romance novels are a safe way to discover what you enjoy in your mind or even in real life.They’re a playground for learning about your own happiness.”
Mr.Thriller’s ears turned slightly pink.“People want realism,” he said.“That’s not realistic.”
“Neither is a man with a mysterious past single-handedly foiling dozens of terrorist plots.If you’re allowed to write that over and over again, why can’t I write about people finding the best in each other and falling in love?”
The audience seemed to be having a wonderful time, so Corinthia let the conversation play out until she deemed it time to give the poor mystery author a turn.As the questions turned to murder and sewing implements, Corinthia’s mind wandered toAlien Space Lesbians.
Whydidthe alien fall so desperately in love with the human main character?And why would the human fall in love in return when, as a couple, they were such an obvious mismatch?One from outer space, one from Earth—the cultural conflict alone would be insurmountable.
And yet…
Maybe the human learned to cherish purple scales and unusual eating habits.Maybe the alien was charmed by the human’s fanatical love and care of specific furry mammals that were not for eating.
It was not something Corinthia would have understood before, but the author had made it understandable.
A playground for learning about your own happiness.
What would bring Corinthia happiness?Maybe a little sweetness, spice, and fluff, with a dash of thrills like brandy in her cup, for flavor.To share her Cabinet of Chocolate….to be soothed until she slept in perfect peace….to be kissed under the twinkling lights of the library tree…
The room had gone silent a beat too long and Corinthia came back to the present with only a slight startle.“I believe that’s all the time we have,” she said, and wound up the panel with the usual encouragements to buy the authors’ books.
Outside, the wind was blowing, and although Corinthia could not feel it on her skin, she felt it in her bones.It was a good thing the guided hike was about to begin, for if she had not been given an excuse to go back to the Refuge, she would have found one and gone anyway.
10
Steviehadgatheredtheauthors who hadn’t been on the panel and was leading them out to the beginning of the shortest and least taxing path, an abbreviated loop that didn’t stray too far from the library.Corinthia brought the remaining three authors.All together, they made a large and boisterous group.Corinthia greatly preferred her quiet, solitary walks, but felt it was her duty to help shepherd the visitors around since it had always fallen to Stevie in the past.
Mr.Thriller was already going on about how he was an expert hiker and had managed to work his vast hiking experience into the plot ofDark Mountain Danger.It might have been more listenable for Corinthia if she had not already been annoyed by his comments on romance novels.
She dropped back behind the group, hoping the wind and the birds would drown him out.“If there’s any justice,” she said to herself, “he’ll get lost, and the romance author will get the royal treatment from the scrub jays.”
It was perhaps not the kindest thought but it was a truthful one, and when Corinthia breathed in the air she felt better than she had before, as if by saying the words she had let them go into the forest, where they could whisper themselves harmlessly into the sand and the trees.When the breeze kicked up, it was as if the forest whispered back.
Corinthia knew it was a fancy and allowed herself to indulge it anyway.She wanted to know the Refuge; she wanted to know Rosemary; and it seemed as if the two were, in some sense, one and the same.
She let the group get even farther away.In the distance a scrub jay stood sentinel on a high branch, watching the clumsy beings traipsing through its home.Corinthia knew herself to be just as heavy-footed as the rest, although she tried to make her footfalls softer.
Rosemary, however, she could not categorize the same way.Rosemary seemed to glide over the sand; to float, almost, as if she weighed nothing and could be carried away on the breeze alone, jeweled headpiece—or buckle, or buttons—catching gems of light and scattering them across the oak leaves like disappearing dew.
I am home, she’d said, and Corinthia could almost believe it.
When the entire group had reached a thicket known for scrub jay activity, Stevie stopped and bid them all to be silent.
It was not quite silent, but shuffled feet and muted voices did not scare away the scrub jays.Their fluttery wingbeats and curious chatter could be heard close by in the tangle of oaks.
“Stay still,” Stevie said, loud enough for all to hear but not so loud it would scare the birds.
The romance author from the panel stood still off to one side of the path.A space of white sand lay open next to her.
There was a flash of blue.
A single scrub jay landed in the invitingly open space.It hopped across the sand and paused to peck at the ground.
The authors aimed their cameras and snapped away with murmurs of delight.
