He had been coming for just a little more than two weeks. It was the peace and quiet that drew him. At least that's what he told his friends. "I can clear my mind there, block out every other thought and truly focus on my work." His work was writing. Or at least that's what he called his "work." In reality, he was simply a teacher. His days were spent doing little more than regurgitating information so that students could meet arbitrary standards set by the state. It was writing that was his true passion, and so his evenings found him headed off to the library to complete the next great American novel.
His friends thought he was odd, going to the public library rather than one of the university branches. "But aren't there lots of other people just hanging out? Kids running around?" "And aren't their homeless people there? My God, it has to be worse than the local Starbucks!" Many a laugh was shared at his expense.
"I only go in the evenings, long after the kids have gone home for dinner and bedtime. Just a few hours before closing. And no, the homeless are nowhere to be found. I imagine they would much rather spend their evenings at the local shelter. There's really not that many people and the staff can be helpful."
It wasn't that he was completely lying. He did need to focus on his work. But it wasn't really the quiet atmosphere that kept him coming back. It was her.
In the evenings the public library was a bit on the eery side. With no patrons browsing the stacks, the automatic control lighting made sure the majority of the library was dark and shadowy. The few remaining patrons found themselves hunched over dimly lit tables and cubicles, furiously scribbling their remaining thoughts of the day. Everyone seemed eager to pack up and head home. It was this sense of "winding down" that helped his thinking settle after a busy day. As the rest of the world retreated, he could step forward. The library was his, an empty space calling out to be filled with grandiose ideas and fanciful storylines. It was a blank canvas. It was his fortress of solitude.
Besides, there was something about the smell of old books that he found soothing, and his imagination ran wild. It was as if centuries of authors were calling out, beckoning him to join their ranks and find a place along side them on the shelves. He could smell greatness and imagined his own name living on in posterity with the likes of Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche.
But while greatness may have been beckoning, it was the lone desk at the entrance of the main hall that became the focal point of his creativity. There sat the evening shift librarian, and she quickly became his muse.
She had caught his attention on his first visit and he was immediately captivated. While it truly was his work that brought him back that second time, she had quickly supplanted all other motivation. No longer was he contemplating grand narratives and conflicts between heroes and antiheroes. He was writing a story far different than that which had originally brought him to the library. His thoughts had taken a romantic turn. In his mind he played the role of a swashbuckling rogue, swooping in to rescue the fair maiden from a ravenous gang of pirates. He was the chivalrous knight driving out the barbarous vandals and capturing the heart of the parson's daughter. He found himself writing storyline after storyline, all involving this mysterious vision that seemed to glow like a beacon on a dark night.
He wondered if anyone else had noticed her. It didn't seem typical for the librarian to be so breathtaking. And yet, she had the kind of beauty that was ethereal. He laughed at how trivial all the books surrounding him had quickly become. Not a single page was written about her, and to him that seemed a great waste. How could Keats and Byron claim to have known love, having never met this angel? How could the adventures of Casanova be anything but unremarkable in the absence of this perfect woman? No, to him she seemed a far more worthy topic than any the library had to offer.
He knew he needed to talk to her, to have a voice that could go along with the vision he kept in his thoughts at night. And so he nervously approached her desk, desperately searching for the right combination of words that would provide an entrance into her world.
And just like that he found himself standing in front of her. She looked up, briefly puzzled by his presence, then flashed a smile that sent his heart soaring. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Uh, yes. I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find information on the French countryside, immediately following World War II."
"Interesting. Actually there are probably more places for you to look than you might have expected. Let me write a few reference numbers down pointing you to the right sections of the library. I think you'll find what your looking for under customs, geography . . . travel . . . Oh, and the historical arts section as well."
He wasn't sure why he had asked about the French countryside. He didn't have any particular interest in it. He certainly didn't expect her to know so much, so quickly. He had hoped this would be a lengthy conversation, with her checking multiple databases and maybe even taking him on a lengthy search through the stacks. But as quickly as he had asked, she was handing him a slip of paper with at least a dozen reference numbers.
"Here, this should keep you busy for the next hour."
"Thanks. I'm sure this will." And just like that it was over.
"Wait. I have to ask. What is sparking your interest in the French countryside?"
"I'm attempting to write a novel. I was thinking of using that period of time as the setting. At least for a portion of the story."
"Fascinating. That's sounds like the perfect backdrop for post war espionage and romance. I hope it is going well for you. Let me know if you need anything else."
"I'll definitely do that, Allison."
"I'm sorry, have we met before?"
"Oh, no. I just saw your name on the desk. Allison. I didn't mean to presume. I'll just leave."
"No, that's perfectly alright. I always forget that my name is there. But please, call me Ally."
"I will. And please, call me Michael. Thank you for your help . . . Ally. I really appreciate this."
"Glad I could help . . . Michael."
He found himself floating back to his desk in a dreamlike state. Her words. Her smile. Those sparkling eyes. He was overcome with excitement. At that moment he was sure he could effortlessly write a novel, sentence after sentence spilling out in an unending flow. She had given him the seed with her words, "Espionage and romance." And now he would plant that seed. How could he write anything but romance? And how could it involve anyone but her? Yes, he would take his place alongside these great authors, surpassing them even, because his subject matter would be far greater. Allison. Ally the Librarian.
His heart was beating heavily within his chest as he collapsed into his chair. Her name continued to repeat over and over in his mind. He would be useless for the rest of the evening, but he wasn't going anywhere. He would stay until closing and then count the hours until he could return to see his Ally.
He remained like that for quite some time, so lost in a dream like state that he never even saw her approach.
"Michael? We're closing now. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow."
The words startled him, quickly bringing him back to reality. He found himself staring up into her eyes as she hovered closely over his table. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I guess I was lost in my own thoughts." He tried to compose himself, afraid that his heavy breathing would give away the erotic nature of those thoughts.
"That must be some story you're writing."
