Of Libraries [Open to poeticheart]

[octavius_lives]

In fairness, the library was something of his second home at this point. Well, rather more his first home. His apartment was increasingly just the place he ate, kept his notes, and occasionally slept. Dual PhD studies seemed to allow for very little else. The late 1980s, not lamented, were giving way to a new decade, almost belatedly - but the stacks upon stacks of books still stood as ever they had at NYU - story after story of them, almost into infinity.

It was where he found himself between classes, usually between two mountains of books and a growing hill of papers in between. Photocopies, heavily-noted, his own hand-written work. And the creaky, bulky laptop he simultaneously loathed and was begrudgingly getting used to. The Stark family was right. The future was digital. To think he'd started with this father's slide rule.

In a moment of tiredness, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes. And then he saw her. He couldn't take the same classes that she did - his workload was heavy enough and his professors would take a dim view of him getting involved with English, or Philosophy. To say nothing of Drama or any other art - but he still audited some. Specifically the ones she was taking. A handful of brief conversation at mutual friends' parties - and some carefully made inquiries of said friends - had helped with finding the right ones.

She was, in a word, captivating. Brilliant, incisive, and yet somehow kind despite it all - he'd seen her cut through the arrogance of many without a single unkind word. And the poetry she was drawn to, what she wrote - it was inspiring.

He wasn't sure she knew his name. He was fairly sure she was single - who could prove worthy of her attentions, after all? - but he found himself tongue-tied every time he tried to find the courage to ask her out. And tonight didn't feel much different.