Both he and Mary were avid readers and they often went to the local library for an hour or two. They’d browse the new fiction shelf, maybe pick something out, or maybe rely on something from Mary’s book bag, and they’d head over to the quiet section and read for a while before heading home for dinner.

With Mary’s passing last year, he stopped going to the library; in fact, he pretty much stopped reading altogether. He pretty much stopped doing everything. Then the new library opened, and he thought maybe he’d take a look at it for Mary’s sake, though he knew that didn’t really make much sense.

It was nice. He spent some time wandering around, and he noticed they even had a single cup coffee machine, with coffee at just a dollar. Mary would have liked that. She loved coffee. He had stopped drinking coffee a few years ago. He thought he ought to try a cup, for Mary’s sake. When he checked his wallet he found he only had a five. There was a reference desk not far away, a young woman seated there, no one he remembered from the old library, and he went over and asked if she had change for the coffee. “Actually I don’t,” she said, “but go ahead and do a cup, and you can pay next time you’re in.” She gave him a sweet smile. He thanked her and decided he might as well try the coffee. Maybe it would be rude not to.

There were a number of varieties, but no decaf. He selected something called French Roast, and following the instructions managed to work the machine. Cup in hand, he walked past the reference desk and thanked the librarian again. He strolled past the aisle of older fiction, noting titles he’d read. He might have picked out a book, a few interested him, but he didn’t trust himself not to spill the coffee while removing the book from the shelf.

At the far end of the building were some chairs and tables and a sign which said, “Quiet Area.” He sat in one of the chairs, fairly comfortable, and sipped the coffee. Good, he thought. Mary would have liked it. He thought about Mary and he shivered and a tiny bit of the coffee sloshed over the side and fell to his trousers. The mishap caused his hand to shake more vigorously, and more coffee sloshed. He was certain it looked like he’d wet himself. And no handkerchief for mopping. Mary always carried the Kleenex and such. He took a few more sips of coffee while waiting for the stains to seep into his trousers and dry. Forty minutes later he managed to finish the cup, and he got up. He was just about to reach the reference desk when he remembered the spill, and he stopped short, not wishing to chance that the cute librarian would witness his soiled pants. He took an alternate route to the elevator. When the door opened, there was the librarian. He stood helplessly at the door. “Coming?” she asked with a smile. He had no choice but to enter the elevator.

“How was the coffee?” she asked. Something in her voice, a hint of tease, made him suspect she’d seen the front of his pants. “It was great,” he said. “Going to one?” she asked, “Otherwise we’re headed to the basement.” He nodded and she pressed his button. “Bye now,” she told him when he got off.

That night he didn’t feel well. He was sure it was the coffee. Caffeine didn’t agree with him. “Serves me right,” he told himself. “Mary, I’m such an old fool.”

During the week he thought several times about visiting the library again. He thought about that reference desk librarian. He wanted to see her again, but he was embarrassed, so he stayed home. Then a week later, the same day he’d visited the library the previous week, he went, making sure he had two dollar bills in his wallet. He both hoped his librarian was there and that she wasn’t. On the plus side, he could show her he was paying off his debt. Also on the plus side, he could see her again. Thinking of her, he realized he had an erection. That hadn’t happened in—he couldn’t remember the last time. On the minus side, what if she was there and somehow he’d ... Unlikely. I mean, it wasn’t like he was in junior high.

She was there! His heart lurched. She smiled at him. “Hello again,” she said. “I’ve missed you.” Oh, Gosh, what was he supposed to say to that? He blurted, “I’ve missed you too,” and he blushed. He fumbled out his wallet and it fell to the floor. “I’m so clumsy sometimes,” he said as he bent to pick up the wallet, hoping he could get up gracefully.

On his feet, wallet in hand, he said, “I brought the money for the coffee.”

“I knew you were the reliable type,” she said.

“I try to be,” he said. “I’ve got an extra dollar. Can I buy you a cup?”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” she said, “but I don’t drink coffee. But you go ahead and enjoy.”

“Actually, I don’t drink coffee either,” he said.

She shook her head, smiling. “You’re a funny guy.” What a lovely grin she had.

He went to the coffee machine, placed a dollar through the slot in the money box, then strolled past the reference desk again. “I might see if I can find a book,” he told the girl.

“We do have quite a few to choose from,” she said. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”

He browsed the fiction shelves and eventually chose a collection of stories by Donald Barthelme. He remembered reading and enjoying these back when he was in college. He remembered reading some of his favorite passages to Mary. He remembered that Donald Barthelme died at a relatively young age, quite a few years ago. He took the book to the quiet section and sat and read for a while. When he woke up the librarian was standing by his chair. “Um, I hate to disturb you, but we’re closing now,” she told him.

“Oh Gosh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he managed to say.

She smiled down at him.

“Um, I guess I lost track of time.” And then he noticed: the boner poking his pants could not have been more blatant. “Oh no,” he whispered.

“That can happen,” she said, he knew not whether in response to his condition or his lame excuse. He quickly bent forward, blood rushing to his face, and plucked the Barthelme collection from the floor, then held it before his groin, blocking any view.

“Do you think you could you check this out for me?” he asked.

“Actually, I can’t,” she said. “Check out desk is on the first floor.”

“Right. Right,” he said. He stumbled to his feet, keeping the book at his front.

“Don’t rush,” she said. “And don’t forget to get in the elevator.”

It took him a moment to remember, and to understand that she was joking.

“Right. Right.”

“Yes. Though left right works better. Or right left.”

He didn’t quite understand that.

“Hay-foot straw-foot,” she said, aware of his befuddlement. “My grandfather always said that.”

“Got it,” he said. “Hay-foot straw-foot.” He made his way to the elevator, a semi-lugubrious march.

He stayed away from the library for two weeks, but the Barthelme, untouched, had to be returned. He waited an extra day, willing to pay the fine if it meant not having to encounter the librarian. At the library, he realized he could have dropped the book in the book return slot. No need to actually go in. But as long as he was here ... After leaving the book at the front desk, the clerk there waiving the fine, “We give a three day grace,” he took the elevator upstairs, curious if his reference librarian worked today. No one was at her desk. “As long as I’m here,” he said to himself, and he ventured into the fiction aisles. He came upon another old favorite, “Endless Love,” by Scott Spencer. “Don’t want to risk another boner,” he decided, giving it a pass.