Here we were, alone together in our city’s most hall owed ground of bookishness, on this city’s night of biggest holiday anticipation.
“What now?” Dash asked, smiling. “Another dance?”
On the subway train from the cooking studio over to Union Square and the Strand, there had been a Mexican mariachi playing in our train On the subway train from the cooking studio over to Union Square and the Strand, there had been a Mexican mariachi playing in our train car. A full ve-piece band, no less, in traditional Mexican costumes, with a handsome, mustached singer who was wearing a sombrero and singing a most beautiful love song. I think it was a love song; he sang in Spanish, so I’m not sure (note to self: learn Spanish!). But two separate couples sit ing nearby started randomly making out when the guy sang so beautifully, and I have to believe it’s because the song’s words were that romantic, and not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
Dash threw a dollar into the donation hat.
I took a risk and upped the ante. I said, “Cinco dollars if you’ll share a dance with me.” Dash had asked me out for New Year’s Eve. The least I could do was return the favor and ask him for a dance. Someone had to step up already.
“Here?” Dash asked, looking mortified.
“Here!” I said. “I dare you.”
Dash shook his head. His cheeks turned bright crimson.
A bum slumped in a corner seat called out, “Give the girl a dance already, ya bum!” Dash looked at me. He shrugged. “Pay up, lady,” he said.
I dropped a ve-dollar Bill into the musician’s hat. The band played with renewed energy. Anticipation from the crowd of revelers on the train felt high. Someone mut ered, “Isn’t that the baby stealer?”
“Catcher!” Dash defended. He held out his hands to me.
I’d never imagined my dare would actually get called in. I leaned into Dash’s ear. “I’m a terrible dancer,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered in mine.
“Dance already!” the bum demanded.
The revelers applauded, goading us on. The band played harder, louder.
The train pulled into the Fourteenth Street Union Square station.
The doors opened.
I placed my arms on Dash’s shoulders. He placed his hands around my waist.
We polkaed of the train.
The doors closed.
Our hands returned to their respective owners’ sides.
We stood at the door to a special storage room in the basement of the Strand.
“Do you want to guess what’s in here?” I asked Dash.
“I think I’ve got it gured out already. There’s a new supply of red notebooks in there, and you want us to ll them in with clues about the works of, say, Nicholas Sparks.”
“Who?” I asked. Please, no more broody poets. I couldn’t keep up.
“You don’t know who Nicholas Sparks is?” Dash asked.
I shook my head.
“Please don’t ever find out,” he said.
I took the storage room key from a hook beside the door.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
I needn’t have asked Dash to close his eyes. The basement was cold and dark and forbidding enough, except for the beautiful, musty scent of books everywhere. But it felt like there should be some element of surprise. Also, I wanted to remove some Rice Krispies lodged in my bosoms without him noticing.
Dash closed his eyes.
I turned the key and opened the door.
“Keep them closed just a lit le longer,” I requested.
I removed one more Rice Krispie marshmal owed to my bra, then extracted a candle from my purse and lit it.
The cold, musty room glowed.
I took Dash’s hand and guided him inside.
While his eyes were still closed, I took of my glasses so I’d seem, I don’t know—sexier?—upon new reflection.
I let the door fall closed behind us.
“Now open your eyes. This isn’t a gift for keeps. Just a visitation.”
Dash opened his eyes.
He did not notice my new glasses-less look. (Or I may have been too blind to distinguish his reaction.)
“No way!” Dash exclaimed. Even with such dim visibility, he didn’t need an explanation of the stacks of bound volumes piled up against the cement wall. He ran over to touch the books. “The complete volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary! Oh wow oh wow oh WOW!” Dash swooned, with the palpable bliss of Homer Simpson exalting, “Mmmm … donuts.” Happy new year.
Sorry to be so goofy and obvious about the declaration, but there was something just so … dashing about young Dashiell. It wasn’t the fedora hat he was wearing or how nicely his blue shirt complemented his deep blue eyes; it was more the composition of his face, a mixture of handsome and sweet, young but wise, his expression arch yet kind.
handsome and sweet, young but wise, his expression arch yet kind.
I wanted to appear cool and indi erent, like this kind of thing happened to me all the time, but I couldn’t. “Do you like it? Do you like it?” I asked, with all the eagerness of a five-year-old tasting the world’s best cupcake.
“Fucking love it,” Dash said. He took of his hat and tipped it to me in appreciation.
Ouch. Cursing—not so dashing.
I decided to pretend he’d said “frocking love it.”
We sat down on the floor and chose a volume to explore.
“I like the etymology of words,” I said to Dash. “I like to imagine what was happening when the word originated.” The red notebook was peeking out from my purse. Dash grabbed it, then looked up a word from the R volume of the OED and wrote it inside the red notebook.