Today I’ve had several cups of coffee already, so I decide to go to the public library. It’s not like the university library or a law library. Instead, I like to go to the little community library that’s only a mile away. It has a big children’s section that I steer clear of, but there are also tables for quiet study and a computer lab with access to legal databases.
I slip a granola bar into my backpack along with my laptop. They don’t like you to eat in the library, but I’m planning to be there for several hours and I need fuel. I hop into my car and ease my way out of my father’s compound. There’s a guard at the gate who waves me on, and once I’ve cleared the property boundary, I’m on my own.
It takes me no time to drive over to the library. I hop out of the car, grab my things, and head into the building. Inside, it’s not particularly quiet. The kids are over to one side, and they’re having some kind of story time. The fiction novels separate the workspace from the children’s area, and the aisles are full of middle-aged women looking for an escape.
I pass them all by, pick an empty desk, and spread out my things. Plugging in all my devices, I log onto the library’s free wi-fi. From there, I can access databases I don’t have at home. Thisgives me another avenue of study, something I’m sure will come in handy on the day of the bar exam.
I settle in, scrolling carefully through the screens so I don’t miss anything. I find one reference I need to chase down. Unlike newspaper articles or blogs, I can’t skim over anything. If I don’t understand, I must keep digging until I do. I wish Marlena were here so I could ask her. But since she isn’t, I decide to track down a book on the subject. I’m in the library, after all.
I walk to the reference section, toward the small collection of legal resources on the shelves. I’m not paying attention to the surrounding people, so I don’t see the woman in front of me until it’s too late. I run right into her, knocking a stack of books she’s carrying to the ground.
My first thought is how clumsy I am. I stoop down to help her retrieve her books, noticing that one of them is a phone book from the 1980s. I’m about to comment on it when I look up into her eyes. They are the most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen.
Her face is perfectly symmetrical. She has a button nose and long blonde hair. She’s petite but athletic, with a sweet, kind of energy that makes me wonder what she’s like in bed. I swallow what is dancing on the tip of my tongue. My mind is suddenly empty, and I feel like I have a mouthful of sawdust.
“Sorry,” she says, taking the phone book from me.
“I’m…” I begin. My brain is struggling to catch up with my current predicament. We’re no longer picking up books. Now we’re talking. I have to get a grip, or she’s going to think I’m some kind of weirdo. “You’re going to call somebody?”
“What?” she asks, glancing down at the massive yellow index in her hand. “No, it’s for research. For looking up families in the area.”
I realize I’m staring at her, but I can’t hear half of what she’s saying. There are still at least four other books on the floor. I force myself back into motion, bending down to retrieve the other volumes. But as soon as I’ve collected them, I’m not sure what to do. Should I pile them back into her arms, or should I offer to take them somewhere for her?
She stares at me awkwardly, and there’s a deathly silence. I’m afraid I’m losing her, and the last thing I want to do is let her go.
“Can I bring these to a table for you?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says, as if the idea is shocking to her. “Okay.”
She turns around and walks halfway across the room to one of the reading nooks. I follow closely behind, thrilled that I’ve managed to come up with a ploy to stay with her longer. I’m not usually like this with women. There were enough of them hanging around throughout my teenage years. If anyone should know how to talk to women, it’s me. But this one is different.
“I’m Frankie,” I say, setting the books down on her table.
“Sofia,” she says. “Thanks for bringing the books over. You didn’t have to.”
“It was the least I could do,” I scoff, brushing off her concerns. “You look like you have a lot of research to do.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s a research project.”
“For school?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” she says. “I already graduated.”
“Me too.” I gasp, as if the mere fact that we both graduated from college means we are meant to be together. “I’m studying for the bar.”
“Really?” She seems impressed. “How’s that going?”
“Fine,” I say. “I mean, I’m terrified that I will not pass, so I spend almost every hour studying.”
She looks at me as if she’s just seeing me for the first time. “Do you want to take a break? Get some coffee?”
I open my mouth to respond, thinking that the only reason I came to the library was that I’d had enough coffee for the day. But I’m not going to let that stop me. “Sure,” I say.
“Great,” she says, walking away from the stack of books we so carefully arranged.
“What about your books?” I ask.
“They’ll be here when I get back,” she assures me. “The librarians aren’t so meticulous that they’ll come along and clean up.”
