Time at the Library

They walked toward the library. The path was lined with old oaks.

-Where were you headed before I interrupted? Grafton asked.

-To lose myself, she said. In a book.

-Which one?

She hesitated. She clutched her bag strap.

-Victorian, she said. Something with spicier undertones.

Grafton smirked.

-Fanny Hill was a favorite of my father’s.

She stopped walking. She blinked rapidly.

-That’s... scandalous, she said.

-It’s history, he said. -And feminism.

He watched her walk. He watched the sway of her hips. She caught him looking.

-Professor, she scolded softly. We shouldn't look at things like that.

-I’m an admirer of beauty, he said.

-Beauty is subjective.

-Not always.

They reached the stone steps.

-Jane Austen or Brontë? he asked.

-Brontë, she said. The passion. The taboo.

-I always preferred Emma, he said. Repressed. But a firecracker.

He didn't go in. He sat on a bench outside.

He waited two hours.

She emerged. She carried a stack of books. She looked surprised to see him.

-You waited, she said.

-I had time.

She balanced the books. She pulled a leather-bound tome from the stack.

-This one caught my eye, she said. Provocative essays.

Grafton stood up. He stepped close.

-I have a confession, he said.

She looked up. Her eyes were wide.

-I want to explore the human condition with you.

-Professor... that's...

-Not here, he whispered. -Midnight.

-Midnight?

-Leave your window open.

The books slipped. They hit the grass with a thud.

-I'll be waiting, she whispered.