The Librarianist

“Thanks. Well, Sally, it’s news to me, but I’ve just discovered that my buddy here is head over heels in love.”

“Is that right? Well, hell, congratulations. That’s a great thing.” Sally was petting Bob’s hand, and her smile was genuine.

Ethan said, “But, wait, there’s a problem. So enamored is he that he believes his paramour is too good for the act of love.”

“Ah, one of those,” said Sally, and she shook her head, as if she’d seen the detail coming. “Oh, brother.”

“But what do we say to him?” Ethan asked.

Sally told Bob, “I’ll say it only once, and you can take it or leave it. Understand, though, I’m speaking to you honestly and with all good wishes for you and your little sweetie, all right?”

“All right,” said Bob.

“You listening to me?”

“Yes.”

Sally looked hard into Bob’s eyes. “Even the unsoiled and snow-white dove wants to get nailed to the wall every now and then.”

“See?” said Ethan.

“Am I right or am I right?” Sally asked.

“You’re right. She’s right.”

It can’t be said that Bob gave very much consideration to the advice he’d received from Sally and Ethan that day; but perhaps it wasn’t mere coincidence that Connie and Bob consummated their alliance on their very next date. Her father had been experiencing a shortness of breath and had gone into the hospital overnight for observation and so Connie was free, for the first time since Bob had met her, for twenty-four hours. They had not explicitly discussed her spending the night, but she arrived at Bob’s house with a suspiciously large shoulder bag, which Bob noticed and was noticed noticing. They ate spaghetti and split a bottle of wine and afterward walked about the neighborhood. Bob pointed at a fire hydrant. “Tripped and smashed my head against that one time. Eight years old. Blood all over the place.” The streetlights clicked on as they climbed the steps to the house; once inside, Connie simply continued climbing steps, up to Bob’s bedroom. He followed behind and after some grappling they lay down to succumb to friendly tradition. It was not a lengthy exercise. Afterward Bob lay there thinking his happy, foolish thoughts. He was a fornicator now, and everything suddenly was good. Bob explained about his never having done it before, and Connie was plainly moved to have been his first. When she did not make the same claim as Bob, however, then he had to wonder why. A coldness came over him; knowing he should not ask, he did ask if Connie was a virgin and discovered she’d made love to three other men prior to Bob. She called the men guys. The word was sharp and wounding to Bob; when he asked what she meant in using it, she said,

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“I mean, I’m assuming these were kids from your school, or what?”

“No, Bob, I told you, the boys at school were so awful. I couldn’t think of them in that way at all.”

“Then who were they?”

“Just some guys.”

Bob’s entire body stiffened in the bed. His eyes were shut up tight and Connie, lying on her side, chin resting in her palm, watched him. “I’m not going to talk about it if you’re going to make it into a big deal.”

“I’m not. It’s not. It feels like it is but I know it’s not.”

“It’s not for me,” said Connie.

“Right,” said Bob. “I understand.” He knew it wasn’t in his personal interest, but he couldn’t help himself and had to ask for details of the events. Nothing graphic, he clarified, just the soft pencil sketch; Connie agreed to give him what he thought he wanted. “Guy number one,” she said, “a carpenter replacing the tread on the stairwell to the basement. He was in his early forties, sleepy, friendly, big belly, divorced. That my father would leave us alone together should give you an idea of the man’s looks and status. This was not Gary Cooper, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Weeks before I’d made up my mind to get the whole business over with, and that the next time I had the chance, I’d take it. Well, here it was. So I put on some lipstick and brought the guy a piece of toast, which I watched him eat, and after, I asked, ‘How was the toast?’ ‘Very good,’ he said. I asked him if he was attracted to me and he put on his glasses and squinted. ‘Sure,’ he said. I asked him if he wanted to come to my room and he looked at his watch.” Connie winked luxuriously. “He was sweet, actually. I mean, he wasn’t a pig or anything, and he was physically clean, which was nice. But the act itself was pretty sad. After, he stood at the foot of my bed, staring at the walls of my room. He had this huge, fleshy back with love handles, but a tiny little ruby-red ass, like a ten-year-old boy who’d just been spanked. And there he was, looking at my diploma, my drawings of ponies and fairies, and he said, ‘I shouldn’t have done this.’ He got dressed and I put on my robe and walked him to the door. We shook hands, and he said, a second time, ‘I shouldn’t have done this.’ I never saw him again. Not that I was hoping to. And that was guy number one.