by Lisa Lim
Love In The Stacks
by Lisa Lim
Copyright © 2011. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition.
This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
One
“There is more to sex appeal than just measurements. I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off a tree or standing in the rain.”
~ Audrey Hepburn
Sacré bleu! If Audrey Hepburn were still alive, she’d blanch!
Keeping half an ear turned to the conversation transpiring two feet in front of me, I caught some snippets.
A Victoria’s Secret sales girl was asking a customer, “Sir, what size would you like this negligee in?”
“Oh the size doesn’t matter at all,” replied the bald man with Buddha tits. “My girlfriend is inflatable!”
The sales girl gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, you mean you date a blow up doll?”
“I do, and I’m not afraid to admit it!” exclaimed the customer, pink with pride. “Blow Up Betty is a cheap date. Heck, all she requires is a little bit of air and a lot of love.”
Jenny and I exchanged a look, wearing identical raised eyebrow expressions.
I flicked through the racks and sighed. “Jenny, I’m not sure I want to go through with this.”
“C’mon, Liv,” she chided. “It’s Valentine’s day! Don’t afraid to be sexy in the bedroom; I’m positive Ben will love it.” She handed me a lacy, red teddy. “Here, try this on.”
Humph. That was easy for Jenny to say; with her hourglass figure, she could look sexy in just about anything. Whereas I was shaped like a Bartlett pear. Not an Anjou pear, Bosc pear or an Asian pear. But a Bartlett pear—the King of pears.
“I really don’t think I can pull this off.” My shoulders slumped. “I mean, I feel self-conscious in a bathing suit. How on earth am I supposed to feel comfortable in this strappy, stretchy lace teddy with a thong back and diamond snap crotch?”
“Trust me.” Jenny nudged me toward the dressing room. “Ben will be over the moon that you’re making an effort.”
“But I don’t want to try it on.” I stood my ground, refusing to budge. “I’m pretty sure it’s a health hazard.”
“Fine,” Jenny huffed. “Just go pay for it.”
“Shoot! I’m supposed to be meeting Ben for lunch.” I glanced furtively at my watch. “In half an hour.”
With the nether garments in hand, I hurried over to the register. The cashier rang me up and I swiped my Visa with a sense of foreboding.
Oy vey! I hope I wouldn’t live to regret this.
I arrived at The Parthenon Gyros restaurant right on time but Ben was nowhere in sight. This was not like Ben at all. He was never late for anything. After sitting and waiting around for twenty minutes, I ordered a mega gyro and wandered aimlessly around State Street, treading on campus grounds, trying to kill some time. I found myself imbued with a sense of nostalgia for my undergrad days at the UW-Madison, where all I had to do in life was focus on my studies, hang out with my friends and look forward to Spring Break. I released a heavy sigh. Those were the good ol’ days. The life of an academic seemed so . . . romantic. I don’t know where I got that from, but the idea of my life’s pursuit being knowledge for the sake of knowledge just sounded so neat! Well, the reality wasn’t so romantic. Now I was stuck in a job I hated, with bills, bills, bills and a hefty student loan to repay.
Still, I had no regrets; I wouldn’t exchange my college experience for the world. It was where I’d met Ben. He was the preppy boy from upstate New York, I was the Granola Gal from Minnesota and we met and fell in love in a moth-filled library. We had both worked in the college library over the summer and embarked on a dorky Dewey Decimal romance.
Yep, Ben and I would flirt incessantly whilst we shelved books and shifted periodicals. Surreptitiously, we’d sneak kisses behind rows and rows of books. One night, after we had closed the library, we did the ‘deed’ on the second floor, rattling scores of bookshelves in the process. I still burn with shame at the memory, but we spent that entire summer not worrying about a thing.
We just lived. And loved.
I vividly remember lounging at the Memorial Union, enjoying Babcock ice-cream cones. We’d chill to live indie bands, staying up all night, watching the sun come up from the terrace. During those warmer months, Library Mall was a fond spot of ours. It was an open and grassy space, abuzz with activities. Students threw Frisbees and played hacky sacks. I’d rest my head on Ben’s lap, glorifying in the feel of the sun on my cheeks, losing myself in a good book.
Our summer romance turned into a winter romance. The U-Dub was dubbed the Arctic campus. All winter long, Lake Mendota stayed frozen, like a sheet of glass and the roads were filled with gray slush and salt. During those dreary months, I’d be holed up in my dorm room, snuggled up with Ben.
Soon, without either of us even realizing it, our romance was no longer determined by the seasons.
We were a couple. Period.
Out of the woodwork, a Granola Gal came walking toward me, jolting me out of my reverie.
The university had an interesting and eclectic blend of students. But I was especially intrigued by one particular species—the Granola Gals. Well because, simply put, I used to be one of them. They were my peeps. We drank soy lattes and drifted around in our Birkenstocks, wearing tattered wool socks, baring our unshaven legs. And although the seventies was a bygone era, we still shared a strong penchant for tie dyes.
Suffice to say, I was beyond ecstatic when I spotted a Granola Gal sporting dreadlocks, headed in my direction.
Whoo Hoo! I almost pumped my fists in the air with joy.
The Granola Gals are not extinct!
Seconds later, she was standing right in front of me.
As I stood there, gazing at her dreadlocks, I caught a whiff of patchouli.
“Are you Liv?” she asked.
I nodded, too dumbstruck to speak.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a note into my hand. “Some guy named Ben asked me to give this to you.”
“Thanks,” I replied, blatantly ogling her. This experience was akin to a close encounter with the third kind.
In a blink on an eye, Granola Gal spun around and floated away, in her gray knit socks and Keen hiking sandals. Ah, the footwear has changed with the times.
Slightly dazed, I glanced down and read the note.
Meet me at the College Library,
You’ll find me here:
823.914
B848p
Love, Ben
OK. Ben wanted me to do the Dewey. I was game.
Immediately, I went about dissecting the numbers:
8 = Literature
2 = English literature
3 = English fiction
9 = 1900
1 = 20th century
4 = after 1945
B = my guess was “Beauvoir,” for the simple fact that Simone de Beauvoir was my favorite author, philosopher and social theorist. I mean, how could I not love Simone when she was the one who coined the phrase, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.”
I was right. I found Ben on the second floor, in the back row, leaning heavily against the shelf stacked with books written by Simone de Beauvoir. As Ben watched me advance on him, the lazy sweep of his brown eyes made my skin prickle. Even after years of dating, he still brought
butterflies to my stomach.
With long and quick strides, I was soon beside him. “Hey.” I smiled.
“Hey.” He smiled back. “You found me.”
“I found you.”
Ben straightened himself, shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “I’ve got something for you.”
I nibbled my bottom lip. “You do?”
“I do.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair and paused, as if struggling to find the right words. “When you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Isn’t that from When Harry Met Sally?”
“Nope.” He gave a lopsided grin. “It’s from When Ben Met Liv. And I’ve been wanting to do this for a while . . .” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a rubber stamp. Taking my left hand, his voice caught in a husky rasp as he whispered, “Marry me.” Then he pressed the rubber stamp across my wrists.
My gaze shifted down to my hands and I examined those three words:
NOT FOR CIRCULATION
On impulse, I flung my arms around him, and I didn’t ever want to let go. The sweetness of his gesture nearly undid me. “You know I’ve been ‘checked out’ of the library since the day I’d met you.”
Buried in his strong forearms, he murmured in my hair, “That was long overdue.”
After we reluctantly peeled apart, I whispered in his ear, “I’ve got a surprise for you at home.”
“Well, I look forward to it.” He pressed a kiss on top of my forehead. “I’ve got to go back to work now, but I’ll be home by six.”
TWO
It was pitch-black in my apartment. I’d turned off all the lights and draped myself seductively across the damask duvet. Sexy music played softly in the background and I’d scattered rose petals everywhere. Taking a deep breath, I fluffed my hair and waited, jittery with anticipation. Then I heard the key turn in the lock and immediately I panicked. On impulse, I jumped out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom. As I rounded a corner, I ran smack dab into a wall, knocking myself out in the process.
When I’d regained consciousness, Ben was in my face. “Are you OK, Liv?” he asked, and I could hear the concern in his voice.
“Nurrrggggh,” I grunted.
“Shhhhhh.” Ben pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk babe. You’ve lost your front tooth.”
“I have?” I asked, licking my bloody lip.
He nodded gravely. “I’m afraid you might have sustained a concussion too. You were out cold for several minutes.”
I groaned and rubbed my temples. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.”
Ben helped me to my feet. “I think it’s best you get it checked out. I’ll pull the car around while you put on some clothes.” He dragged his eyes upward toward my face and gave a playful wink. “Your body looks absolutely sinful in that contraption.”
I could feel a blush rising in my cheeks, in my ears and in my throat. I wanted to crawl into the Tora Bora cave and DIE. Ben handed me a towel, which I gratefully accepted.
After Ben had left the room, I quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a plain white tee. Then I grabbed my bag, hoisted it over my shoulder and hurried out the front door.
The ride to the ER was awkward to say the least. Eventually, Ben broke the silence. “Um, so where did you get those unmentionables?”
I giggled. “Unmentionables?”
Ben’s lips curled at one corner. “That’s what my grandma calls them.”
I sank into the leather seat. “I bought the lingerie today, at Victoria’s Secret.” I quickly added, “It was Jenny’s idea. She thought I needed to spice things up for Valentine’s Day and be sexy and all that.”
Ben reached over and squeezed my knee. “Liv, you don’t need lingerie to make you sexy.” At the stop light, he cast me a sidelong glance, increasing the pressure on my knee. “I find you sexy because you have no idea how sexually appealing you are. You seduce me when you’re wearing my boxer shorts, reading a book in bed. You seduce me when you’re looking intently at your laptop, indulging yourself in celebrity gossip. You seduce me in the morning, when you tumble out of bed, your hair mussed from sleep.”
The light turned green and Ben eased the gear shift, keeping his eyes on the road.
I smiled inwardly.
Valentines. Schamalentines. That was better than chocolates and roses.
We arrived at the ER shortly after. The doctor introduced himself as Dr. Reed and he asked me how I’d sustained my head injury.
I clammed up like a Razor clam.
Ben stepped in and explained, “Liz ran into a wall and passed out.”
Dr. Reed stroked his chin. “If you’d lost consciousness, that would mean you’ve sustained a grade three concussion, which is pretty severe. Now, I’m going to ask you some simple questions. Are you ready?”
I folded my hands across my lap. “I’m ready.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live in America.”
“I need something more specific, Miss Munn, like your address.”
“Oh.” I concentrated hard. “I-I live in Madison, Wisconsin.”
Dr. Reed fired the next question, “Who is the president?”
“Herman Cain.” I snorted loudly and added, “Nine. Nine. Nine.”
Dr. Reed turned to Ben and asked, “Has she been drinking?”
Ben gave a slight shrug. “Not that I’m aware of.”
After asking a slew of questions, Dr. Reed recommended a MRI to rule out internal bleeding and other serious brain injuries.
“An MRI is always a good idea, just to rule out other possibilities,” said Dr. Reed. “It helps give you peace of mind. And we don’t have to do the MRI right away; we can schedule an appointment tomorrow or next week. For now, I’d like you to go home and take it easy, OK?”
“OK.” I nodded obediently, thankful to leave the ER. Perhaps this Valentine’s Day could still be salvaged after all.
Ben plumped up the cushions and I slowly eased myself onto the sofa. “Can you please get me a drink?” I asked, milking my injury for all it’s worth. “And a bowl of gelato?”
Ben padded to the kitchen, fetching me a glass of water and a tub of chocolate gelato.
“My neck hurts,” I simpered and shot Ben an injured princess look. “Can you give me a neck rub?”
“Scooch over,” Ben commanded and flopped down on the sofa next to me. Spooning me from behind, he massaged my neck with long kneads and gentle strokes. “So, what would you like to do tonight?”
“Watch a chick flick,” I said, stuffing my face with gelato.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Roman Holiday,” I cried joyfully.
“Ciao Bella!” Ben gave a throaty laugh. “That’s such an old movie.”
“It’s a classic!” I retorted. “Plus, Audrey Hepburn is a star’s star!”
“Oh alright,” Ben relented. “Since you almost smashed your head into smithereens tonight, I guess I’ll gird my loins and watch a chick flick.”
Ben popped the DVD into the player and we sat back, immersing ourselves in the beautiful world of black and white. The chemistry between Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck was magnetic and by the time the credits rolled, I was sniffling. “If wish they had DVDs back in 1950’s; they could have shot an alternate happy ending.”
“Hey. . .” Ben soothed, cupping my chin and cradling my face between his hands. “Don’t be sad. You can have your own happy ending . . . I haven’t given you your Valentine gift yet.”
I sat up straighter. “Gift?
“Well, first off, how do you feel?” His eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Does your head still hurt?”
“It still throbs a little, but I feel fine.”
“Good! Because I couldn’t wait to give you this . . .” Ben reached inside his pocket, produced a ring and slipped it onto my finger.
Gazing at
my princess cut engagement ring, my breath caught in my throat. “It’s exquisite.”
“You’re exquisite,” he deadpanned.
“Liar!” I flashed a toothy grin. “My front tooth is missing and I’ve got a bruise on my head the size of a cantaloupe.”
He pinched my nose. “You’re still exquisite.”
I delivered a solid punch to his arm. “You know I would have been happy and content with just the rubber stamp on my wrist.”
“I know.” He touched my hair; the tenderness in his voice was overwhelming. “That’s why I love you so much.”
“So . . .” My voice pitched higher. “Would you still like to see the surprise I had in store for you?”
Ben’s lips twisted into a quirk smile. “I’ve already seen you in your dominatrix Wonder Woman get-up.”
“No,” I protested. “Not that!” I extended my hand, holding up my wrist. “This!”
Ben took my little hand in his big hand, examining the symbols that decorated my left wrist. A mixture of emotions played across his face. “You got it inked?”
“Yep. I sure did—in Hebrew.” I beamed beatifically. “It’s a permanent tattoo! And you better not make me live to regret this.”
“I won’t!” His voice was confident and firm. After a slight pause, he asked, “Why in Hebrew?”
“Well if I’d gotten the words ‘NOT FOR CIRCULATION’ tattooed across my wrist, I’m pretty sure I’d resemble a walking reference book.”
“Liv, you are my reference book.” He cast me a meaningful look. “I’d be so lost without you.”
I shook my head, my eyes crinkling at the sides. “OK, you can quit being a cornball now.”
Standing up, Ben scooped me into his arms and walked toward the bedroom, carrying me over the threshold as if it were our honeymoon night. “This marriage is a done deal in my books.” He added, “And our story . . . our book will forever be shelved in the non-fiction aisle.”
