In my fantasy he will find me between the fiction stacks in a library shaking the rain from his hair with laughing eyes and a lopsided grin. He will make me feel instantly at ease, not as if I am auditioning for a role and preparing to dive into the spotlight. He will be tall. Which is odd, because I don’t date tall men. But, he will be. I will have to look up for once. I will like looking up, for once.
I imagine him piling stacks of books in my arms: classics and barely-knowns and graphic novels and bestsellers and comedies and tragedies and then looking at me for reassurance, like “you don’t think this is crazy, do you?” And I will shake my head, speechless. And he will cup my cheeks in these two strong hands and he will kiss me kiss me kiss me until there is nothing left.
And I will know that it was worth it, all of this, to get there. To be in that anonymous library with that dark stranger, my arms filled with books, kissing like I have been starving for him. While outside raindrops explode against the pavement.