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“So comfy here. Why fight traffic and pay five bucks for an espresso out there somewhere? And I just — I just kind of prefer staying in.”
“Homebody?” It was a stupid thing to ask, an obvious restatement of what she had just said. But it was the only thing I could think to say. Other than you’re beautiful, Eleanor. But that statement of the obvious could wait until later.
She handed me one tiny glass of espresso. “I hope you take it hot?” Eleanor laughed childishly.
“I don’t mind it hot… if it’s good enough.”
Embarrassed by my horrible attempts to flirt, I gulped down the shot of espresso in one gulp. I was demonstrating something. Or at least demonstrating my masculinity. My mouth and throat seared in pain. “Oh shit.”
“Did you just burn yourself with the espresso?” Eleanor grabbed my cup and filled it with chilled water. She handed me the glass of water to drink without waiting for an answer about the burning thing.
“Um, yeah. I’m sorry if it makes me less desirable in your eyes that I can’t even drink espresso right.” I grinned. I tried to look cute. I didn’t know how, but maybe I succeeded because her returned glance screamed unwritten desire.
“It doesn’t matter how you drink your espresso. We’re in private.” That wasn’t quite a compliment, but I would accept it.
“So, you don’t go out for coffee, huh?”
“I just think I have the best living room in the world at my disposal right here as soon as the library closes to the public in the evening. So why go anywhere else?” Eleanor spread her arms expansively, showing the vastness of the library. Her hands almost reached the walls in her tiny room within the metaphoric bowels of the New York Public Library. “And yeah, homebody.” She grinned.
Despite the seeming put-togetherness of her hipster glasses, her face bore slightly uneven makeup, a telltale of bad vision probably — and of the hipster glasses really being for vision correction more than for appearances.
“Can we actually go out to the library and the books?” I pointed at the door.
“Sure. It’s a bit — overwhelming, maybe alone, but with you—” She was definitely nervous.
“Really?”
“I just feel comfortable with you.”
Eleanor opened the office door and led me out of her tiny nest, into the cool, half-lit rooms of books.
“I guess this is like a tour of your home,” I said. She nodded in response. “You want to show me some of your favorite spots?”
“There’s so much. Umm. You like Lord Byron?” Eleanor smiled hopefully.
“Of course, I like Byron.”
“This is so cool.” She sounded like a teenager when she said it. She jogged up the stairs and looked behind her to make sure I was following. “Let me show you my absolute favorite place. Near the Byron.”
“I agree; this is so cool.”
I lightly patted Eleanor’s shoulder to demonstrate my approval of the library tour. I wanted to put my hand forward, lay it in her hand, let Eleanor hold my hand, and lead me forward, like an Instagram photo of leading someone somewhere. But it was too early for that. Maybe. A little bit too early. But the temptation was strong.
Eleanor flicked lights on as she walked through shelves of books. She reached a low-set gray fabric sofa looking out on nighttime downtown New York through a narrow vertical window. Around eight P.M., some office buildings’ lights were still on. She motioned for me to sit down while she went to the shelf, then came back with a book.
“I figure I can make the delivery once in a while.” Eleanor patted my shoulder as she sat down. Then she showed me the book she’d brought from the shelf. “You ever read Don Juan?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind rereading it now, though.”
“Or having it read to you?” She smiled at me again.
“Nobody has ever, I mean not since I was a kid, nobody has ever—”
“Let’s begin then,” she said. She slid closer to me on the sofa. We sat with legs and bodies touching side-by-side. Her hands were busy holding the book.
“I hope you don’t mind if I put my arm around you.” I was already stretching my right arm back when I said it.
“Wouldn’t mind at all.” Eleanor looked directly at me with a smile when she said it.
“Epic poetry.” I nodded as if I was a connoisseur of the genre. I wasn’t, although I certainly appreciated it, and I especially appreciated the idea of a woman like Eleanor reading poetry to me.
“You’re single, right?” she asked, her thick glasses and all. She looked cutely, adorably, irresistibly, innocently cute when she asked that question so directly and seriously looked at me for an answer.
“Yes, I’m single, if you haven’t figured it out already.” I restrained myself less in how much I hugged her with my arm around her shoulder.
