The Library

He has been here all day. Now it is silent and walking between the empty, polished tables she cannot help but notice how beautiful he looks sat there, poring over some thick, comforting volume. The thin fabric of his t-shirt, a band of blue around each arm, just a little too tight.  And that is it. That splendid, meaty torso of his is just a little of the reason why he is here. On the outside he comes pretty close to western society’s idea of what male beauty should be. He is Apollo, Adonis and Sampson all rolled into one. In his line of work people love it, girls shriek and cry and fantasize about those shoulders. TV interviews always mention them, his band mates sometimes engage in playful banter about his chest. But on the inside he is terrified of being thought of as being just some pretty meathead. It is a fear that is utterly unfounded. But of course, people only see the surface because that is easier than trying to scratch beneath the glossy patina. In reality he is always reading, eating through books at a rate of knots that even she finds stunning. And yes, while he might have the nicest looking delts that she’s ever seen, she knows that he can match her and then kick her ass mentally too.  They frequently spar over dinner, the crackle of tension just beneath the surface, on art, philosophy, ethics, literature and politics. And yet, as the band find themselves getting bigger and filling out concert halls, she has noticed that he is shrinking away, increasingly unsure of himself, nervous. In the old days, when they had met in the bar that the band had started in, he was funny and kind and warm-hearted - she remembers those days so well. So, that when he first scooped her up in a massive, wooly hug she found herself thinking that so long as he was there, nothing could go wrong, everything would be perfect and that she was a bad feminist for thinking that way.

             But now, he seems overwhelmed by what is happening to his life. At how different it has become. Though his outward appearance suggests a man who is cocky, sure of himself and comfortable with fame, he disappears when the lights go down and the audience goes home.  Underneath he is full of a million fears and worries that plague everyone, that make us human, that he, being famous and attractive, feels that he cannot show to anyone.  This, his time alone, at night, in the city’s vast Victorian library is his favourite part of his time off. Here, he does not have to be anyone to anyone and can sit at the, old reliable tables and sink into the comforting mustiness of the books.

                Sitting down next to him, she plants a kiss on his cheek and smiles up at him, letting her coat hang over the back of the chair.  “Hey baby, what’cha reading?”

   He looks up and smiles back, nervously running a finger down the page. “Hey. Oh, it’s er, just some thing about Dickens. Or no, some book by him.”

She smiles as he corrects his English and nods. “Oh, which one?” She lets her bag fall to the floor and tilts the book away from the table to read the spine, his hands moving upwards with the flattened pages, “ ‘The Battle of Life’ – I’ve never read that one.”

    “Hmm, it’s pretty good so far. I’m not sure about some things, so you will have to help me.” He grins at her and brushes her arm. “Shall we get food? What time is it?”

   “About seven. And of course I’ll help you. Anyway, you’re better at English than you think. I’m sure there’s plenty of English people who couldn’t make head nor tail of Dickens at the best of times.”

   He stands up and stretches, the dim lamplight casting a pale yellow glow around him, making him appear ghostly, like Marley himself. But then she thinks of him wrapped in chains and her mind runs off in all kinds of lurid directions.  She shakes her head and looks down, her hair falling in front of her face in an attempt to hide her blushes.

   “What?” he pokes her in the side playfully and curls his arms around her. She shrinks into the crook of his arm and laughs. “Nothing.”

There is a moment of silence and he lays his chin into her hair. “Suit yourself then.” 

  She pulls away and looks up at him, slipping onto the table, running her fingers over the detail on his cardigan. “ Feeling better now?” 

He nods and sighs contentedly. “Much better, thanks. I think sometimes I just need some, er, some solitude after touring, you know? You’re not pissed at me are you?”

She laughs and slaps his chest playfully. “Don’t be silly. You know I know you need your alone time. It’s fine. I’m the same.”

     He nods and kisses her forehead. “You see, that’s why I love you, Mimi. You’re the only girl I have ever been with that knows that I need some…” he stops for a moment, trying to find another word, looking up at the vaulted ceiling as if the Gods of literature might offer up the answer and then looks back at her, like he has found it.  “I need some space sometimes. You know?”

      “I know.”  She nods and her mahogany eyes glint back at him in the lamplight.

“But I feel so guilty for leaving you and I miss you so much when I’m away.” He scoops her up and she curls into him happily. “It’s so nice to be back in the normal world for a little while.” He closes his eyes and for a moment he feels he could laugh and cry. That his heart could burst.  For a second, he feels that he would be happy to sink back into obscurity and play dive bars forever if it meant that he could go to the gym and read and stand about smelling Mimi’s apple scented hair.

  Suddenly, her tiny hand curls around his, pulling him away from the table and through the vast corridors of bookshelves.

    “ Wha-“ he goes to speak, but is silenced by confusion. She pulls him close, sandwiching herself between Anthropology D – P and him, reaching up and pulling his face down to meet hers. Even in heels, there is still a good six inches in height between them and he dwarfs her in the shadows. She pulls him against her and his eyes spring open, flashing wide, knowing how this will end.  He giggles and brushes the hair from her neck, his hands drifting down her back, pulling her close as 19 weeks on tour, with 11 other men comes crashing down around him. God damn. He is glad to be home.  

  “Come on.” She whispers, their eyes meeting, stifling laughter like two naughty school children. She makes a sharp right around the end of the bookcase and then a quick dart to the left, past a sign marked, Cartography – please use gloves provided.

The library is nearly silent now, it is a Friday and most of the students from the university and hospital have dissipated into the city. No one has any reason to be here on a Friday night. There is a low electric hum of the old wiring and the sporadic sound of pages turning punctuated by the fabric hush of their clothing as they back into a corner. Mouths and hands are more desperate now, pulling and wandering and moving the way only old lovers can, and yet, whenever he is back it is like the first time over and over. A great exhalation.