Cover Stories

Stanley walked back to the table. He stopped at the edge of her personal space.

-It's ok, he said. I get it. Men are creeps. I was genuinely interested in what book you're reading, he said defensively.

She raised an eyebrow.

-Wow, color me impressed, she said. A man admitting he might be part of the problem.

She looked down at the cover. Her fingers traced the raised letters of the title.

-It's a classic horror novel, actually, she said. The Shining by Stephen King. I find his writing utterly captivating, she added.

-I've never read Stephen King, Stanley said. But I saw a few movies.

She scoffed.

-Movies, really? Nothing beats diving into the original text.

She tapped the cover.

-Reading allows you to paint the picture in your mind, she said. Adding layers no film could achieve.

-I agree, Stanley said. But I haven’t read Stephen King.

She smirked.

-Well then, perhaps today is your lucky day, she said.

She gestured to the empty wooden chair across from her.

-Sit for a bit.

Stanley sat. He kept a careful distance. He could smell her perfume now.

-I've been finishing the autobiography of Jill Conway, he said. It goes across three books. Have you read her?

She arched an eyebrow.

-Jill Conway? That name doesn't ring a bell. Tell me more.

-She grew up on a farm in the Australian outback during the Great Depression and World War II, Stanley said. Ended up being the first woman president of Smith College.

She nodded slowly. How many girls has he tried this with? She played along.

-Impressive resume. Do you want a prize for reading women?

-That’s fair, Stanley replied. No prize, just a conversation.

She studied him. Looking for the angle

-Can I be honest with you?, Stanley asked suddenly.

-That depends on the honesty, she said. Some truths are better left unsaid.

-I'd like to make a friend to talk books with, he said. I don't have many literate friends.

She chewed on her lip.

-Friendship? she asked. Amicable isn't synonymous with friend. Friends share things. Vulnerability.

-I get it. Safety is hard to come by. Even here.

She traced the spine of her book.

-I suppose there's no harm in a little intellectual discourse, she said. Provided we set ground rules.

-Okay, Stanley said. My name's Stan, he added, reaching out his hand.

-Lena, she said, barely looking at his hand. Rule one: No unwanted advances. If I feel uncomfortable, it ends immediately.

-Agreed.

-Rule two. Honesty.

She held up three fingers.

-Rule three. No unsolicited photos.

-I can't send photos, Stanley said. My phone is ancient.

She smirked.

-My, aren't you straightforward, she said. Most men beat around the bush.

He held his tongue and reached into his bag instead. He pulled out two paperbacks and slid them onto the table.

“Bel Canto” by Ann Patchett. “Memories of the Ford Administration” by John Updike.

Lena looked at the spines. She didn't touch them.

-Contrasting choices, she said. -Practical and ambitious.

-I liked “Taft,” Stanley said. But I wanted to try Updike. I like the seventies setting.

The book actually happened in the nineties but neither of them knew that. She tapped the table near the Patchett book.

-I’ve read “Bel Canto,” she said. It’s about how art connects people in a crisis.

-Good, Stanley said. Then we can discuss it.

She hesitated.

-Reading together is intimate, she said. Sharing an experience like that with a stranger... it makes me uneasy.

-But you’ve already read it, so we can just talk about it.

She relaxed. Slightly.

-Bel Canto?, she asked. I can read it again.

-That would be nice.

She stood up and smoothed her skirt. The meeting was over.

-I'll let you know when I start, he said, passing her his phone to get her number. He hadn’t been lying, it was an old Nokia brick.

She smirked.

-I'm sure you will, she said, taking the phone to dial her number in.

He handed the phone back to Stanley, turned and walked away.

He watched her go and put the book in his pocket.