Page 40 of Only Lovers in the Building

He took it from her and brought it to his nose. “Nice. You better smell like this every day.”

Lily laughed. She pulled out a journal from the other bag. “I got this downstairs. Thought I’d try journaling instead of posting random thoughts online.”

“You should start writing,” he said.

“Write what?”

“Romance. You know the genre like the back of your hand.”

Lily had considered it, way back when. Ultimately, she’d rejected the idea. “It’s my escape. I don’t want to monetize it.”

“What about your thoughts on the genre? You could monetize that. It’s called literary criticism.”

“I do that for free on BookTap.”

“I mean an exploration of the themes—”

“I know what you mean, Professor.”

“Think about it. You have a distinctive voice, an audience, and subject matter expertise. Men have gone to war over far less.”

“Well,” Lily said, “when you put it like that.”

“So much about writing is having a unique point of view.”

Was the translator looking into writing original work? Lily wondered.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

“It’s unclear for the moment, but I’ve got to put that grant money to use. It’s all anyone asks me about.”

Lily heard the hum of anxiety in his voice. Was this something he was struggling with?

“Aren’t you free to do whatever? Isn’t that how it works?”

From what she’d read, the grant was awarded with no strings attached. He could pay off student debt, travel, or use it as a down payment on a house.

“Ideally, I’d put it toward something meaningful,” he said. “The only problem is I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“I think the best way to tackle a problem is to avoid it all together!” Lily declared.

“It’s one way.”

Ben slipped off his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, as if her suggestion had given him a headache.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “You’re too smart not to.”

“Thank you,” he said. “What can I get you from the bar?”

Lily eyed his laptop, pile of notebooks, assortment of pens, and the highlighter he’d just retrieved from downstairs. “I should go. You’re working.”

“I was, but now I get to spend time with you.”

He tossed out words like this as if they didn’t cause mini earthquakes deep inside her, leaving large cracks in the barren landscape of her soul.

“Okay. I guess,” she said. “What’s good here?”

“Most people like the sangria. The lemon cake is popular, too. What would you like to try?”