I don’t know you. You don’t know me. That’s probably best for all concerned. If you were ever to speak to me, I would say something clever and alluring like, “EEEEP!” before fleeing the premises. Social ineptitude is my mating call of choice.
But despite the fact that I blush so hard every time you enter the library that an innocent bystander could explode a Peep from the heat radiating from me, I’m not actually attracted to you, per se. It’s your philosophy, baby.
Those books you select–they’re always so. . .Greek. And commentary-like. You pick up books by my favorite authors–and, even more impressively, you actually read them. I’ve seen you poring over books regarding everything from philosophy to ethics to theology. (I’ll admit that this all sounds creepy, but please rest assured that it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I started to realize that you were the patron who was always leaving behind the reading material I’d rather peruse than shelve.)
And I have to acknowledge that I’m intrigued.
I don’t want to spend hours watching movies or playing Frisbee or sharing our past traumas, or whatever it is people do on noncommittal dates these days. But if you are ever available, I would really appreciate the opportunity to spend an afternoon with you in a used bookstore with stacks of our favorites, exchanging thoughts on our respective readings while sipping on vanilla chai lattes (we can totally go Dutch). You don’t have to tell me your name or your favorite football team or your career goals. I just really want a chance to interact with your beguiling worldview.
What do you say?
PS: Your physiognomy is admittedly appealing, as well.