The stack of pages I printed out from today's session at the microfilm machine is an inch thick, and I'm only halfway through the dang thing. I'm running out of time. The rolls will be sent back to the Library of Congress next week. I should keep going, but I just can't. The sounds of rolling the film forward and backward comes to me in my dreams. I've been here every day before work and I'm ready to cry at the sight of one of these monstrosities. I return it to the librarian and walk up to the ninth floor.

The Winter Garden under the glass roof of the Harold Washington Library Center is my favorite place to study. The calm space is full of light and looks more like a plaza than an inside of a building. One of the little tables in the middle of the enormous hall is empty. I stare at the copies of the handwritten manuscript. How can I get through these pages when I can't figure out half of what the portions in Latin even say? I fold my arms on the table and bury my face in them. I'm doomed.

"Amélie?" A familiar voice calls my name.

I lift my head and find a guy next to me, silhouetted against the light. Black jeans. Blue long-sleeved T-shirt. I sit up all the way.

"What are you doing here?" He moves his longish disheveled hair behind his ear.

I know this voice. And this face. "Oh, hi, Ben. Fancy seeing you here."

"Nothing fancy. Picking up a special-order book for Tall. You?"

"Research for the thesis." I point at the photocopies in front of me.

He looks at them then at me. "Didn't look like you were reading."

"No kidding. I hoped I could struggle through some of these before I have to go to work, but my brain's fried."

"Running helps me when my head is stuck."

"Lucky you. I don't run."

"You told me. How much time do you have?"

"About an hour."

"Plenty of time for a walk." Ben nods toward the exit.

"But it's raining." A walk might be an excellent idea, but one that requires me to get off this chair first.

"How about one indoors?" He looks around the room. "This way." Ben strides to the left. I hurry to stuff my papers into my bag and follow.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Tour of the library. We should have plenty of time before you need to go."

"Okay." I catch a corner of my lip going up. The thought of a private tour with Ben as my guide gives me a boost of energy three cups of coffee failed at.

"Do you know anything about Harold Washington? The man this building was named after?"

"I mean, he was the first African-American Mayor of Chicago."

"True. What else?"

"What else is there?"

"This way." Ben's not slowing down. He looks around, nods to himself and heads down to the left toward Special Collections, exits the Winter Garden though the glass doors and into a hallway. He stops and turns around back to where we came from. Are we going back in? Is he lost?

"Look." He points up above the door. A mural decorates the walls. The portion over the door features two kids lounging pointing to a quote painted on a banner above them.

'Most of our problems can be solved. Some of them will take brains, some of them will take patience, and all of them will have to be wrestled with like an alligator in a swamp.' Harold Washington

"I thought this will help you keep going with your schoolwork," says Ben.

"I'm definitely in the lack of patience stage. Not looking forward to the wresting the alligators either." The walls of the hallways display many other scenes in vibrant colors. "What other secret library spots do you know about?"

"Not sure how secret they are. But there's a lot of art here. Thanks to the art ordinance one point thirty-three percent of the construction cost of municipal buildings is set aside for the purchase or commission of permanently installed artwork."

"Wow, sounds like you know a lot."

"Not really. Tall and I came for an Art Tour here. I have good memory."

I step away from Ben and examine the mural I've passed many times before but never thought much about. "Does it have a name?"

"Communidad Si, It Takes a Vision." His voice comes from a distance, and I catch him walking further along the hallway.

"Hold on." I run to catch up.

He heads down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"You wanted secrets," he says.

"Sounds mysterious. Are you a CIA agent?" One of my dreams starred Ben as a secret agent employed by an international conglomerate to save the world economy. He could also shoot blue laser beams out of his eyes.

His expression becomes so serious that I regret my tongue-in-cheek attempt. "I would never pass their psychological evaluation. On top of that, my ability to lie is limited. I tend to speak my mind, and that is not a desirable trait for spies." He speeds down the stairs, and I hold on to the railing, trying to keep up. He's really making this into an exercise. "I've seen a fair share of mental health specialists trying to come up with a diagnosis. First, I was told I have Asperger's. Now it's part of Autistic Spectrum or ASD."

Asperger's. Autistic Spectrum. I stop in the middle of the stairs as he continues down.

I don't understand. Ben's normal. More normal than some douchebags I know. And kind. And considerate. A bit nerdy but I would've never assumed he's on the spectrum. He's nothing like Rain man or the non-verbal kids I saw in the special ed class at school.

Ben scales the steps up to me and pauses at the landing three steps below. "Have you heard about it? Do you know what it is?"

"I think so." I sound tentative even to myself. I try to remember what I read about it in one of my psychology courses. "I've noticed... I'm sort of honored you chose to share this with me. It explains some things." I sit down on the steps and lean my back against the railing.

"What did you notice?" he asks in a low voice. "And please tell me the truth."

"Well." Can I voice my observations about him? Should I? I'm not this forward with anyone. Saying things outright holds so many dangers—keeping it to myself is much more in my comfort zone.

"Your bluntness." I pause. He does not chime in. I dangle my feet over the imaginary fence and leap. "The eye contact? Like how you either not looking me in the eyes or staring at me for way too long. Then I've always wondered about your clothes: your sweats and hoodies even in the middle of summer. And you don't always smell fresh on Tuesdays. And why do you always come so late to the store?" Oops. I hide my face in my hands. I've said too much.

"I see. Eye contact is indeed something I struggle with. If I get distracted, I forget about it." He takes the three steps that separate us and sits down. "The rest of it has nothing to do with my mental health. The outfit, the odor, and the timing. I belong to a Taekwondo dojo I think I mentioned before. I attend a class there Tuesday nights, and it ends at nine-thirty. If I took the time to shower I wouldn't make it to the store. My clothes are what I carry in my gym bag. My hygiene is not an issue." He sounds a bit disappointed.

"Oh, I see." So dumb of me to assume.

"The truth is I was planning on telling you this about me on Saturday because"—he halts for a moment—"because I have a request."

I take my hands off my face. The staircase is empty. I cross my arms on my chest and rest them on my knees, and my breaths grow shallow. I'm a bit afraid of what his request is going to be. "Oh, yeah?" I'm a lot afraid.

"I want to ask for your help with something," says Ben.

Ben wasn't a spy, but the number of times he's said something unexpected since I've known him might be a trend. I brace myself. "What can I possibly help you with?"

"I would like you to help me with dating."

He did it. In my wildest dreams I wouldn't have predicted that to come out of Ben's mouth. And I can admit I've had a couple of interesting daydreams about his mouth. What the heck am I supposed to say to that?

"Eh, what?" I stall.

"I need help figuring out how to date. My friend Mike tried to help, but his approach doesn't work for me. I can't flirt like he does, and he wasn't able to spell it out for me. I can't talk to Mom about it. And you've been the only other person I'm comfortable with to broach the subject. You said last time you've had five boyfriends, and it got me thinking that you might be the perfect coach for this."

The confessions keep coming. How is my having boyfriends a qualification? My head spins. "Let me tell you what I think you are asking me, Ben."

He nods several times in rapid succession.

"You want to discuss your dating life with me." I can't look at him. I should but I can't, so I examine the dark purple nail polish on my hands instead. Ben waits for me to go. The words in my head refuse to form a coherent sentence.

"Are you looking for tips on how to...woo a girl?" I sound like my Nonna. "Do you use dating apps to hook up and now want to pursue someone seriously? And sorry if I'm jumping to conclusions assuming you are interested in girls, please correct me if I'm wrong." I glance up at Ben. I'm not a prude, far from it, but it's like I'm in a parallel universe. Thrown from "The Wedding Rites of the Kingdom of France: 13th Century" into "How to Date a Girl: Twenty First Century edition."

"You are correct," he says. "I'm interested in women. I've met several I liked, but I never knew how to act on that attraction. I've never dated or hooked up. I've never even kissed anyone. Well, my parents, when I was a child. I'm a virgin."

Whoa. What? Way to drop another bomb on me.

My brain, already tired from the microfilmes, is having a hard time keeping up with him. Sharp pain pirces my left temple and echoes in the middle of my chest. My ears fill with the sound of my pulse. What's the appropriate response here? 'So sorry to hear that' doesn't seem right but neither is 'Have you been living under a rock?'. I drape myself over my knees and look down as if my feet. There's no way I'm not going to say something I'm not going to regret.

"I do not need your pity," says Ben. "But I'd like your help. Would you be interested in helping me, or have I scared you away?"

"Pity is not what you saw on my face," I bite back. I rub my temples, my irritation—with me, with him?— rising. "It's my ... contemplative face. I'm a little... well, stunned you trust me with this information and not super sure how I can be of help. I'm in no way a dating specialist. I can try to answer any questions you think will help you figure things out. I can also see if there are any clinical psychologists or cognitive-behavioral thera—"

"No therapists, no psychologists." Ben jumps to his feet. "I've had quite a lot of that."

"I see..."

"I am not sure you do." He's doing his open-close hand thing again. "I have been seeing specialists since childhood. And while most of them are great, true professionals, I'm not looking for that type of help." He rakes his hand through the mass of his hair, no baseball cap to hold it in place. "I've watched and read all one could: from self-help to romance novels, to physiology books to how-to tutorials online, to porn, to romantic comedies. I could write a book about the stages and dos and don'ts of a relationship. But I've never experienced it myself. I need to practice. I want to go through the steps a relationship follows, so I can one day have a family of my own. Please. I would like your help." His voice breaks. I look up at him and in a rare moment of eye contact our gazes lock. "Will you help me?"