The store is warm and bright with rows of second-hand books and some new ones in between. The modern lettering and signage indicate different sections on the floor and contrast against the fashionably vintage shelves. I don't need to search for the location of the reading, because a booming male voice carries from the left back corner of the big room. I tiptoe my way around the shelves, following the sounds. My third turn around the stacks lands me in the middle of a small gathering. Ten rows of chairs are set up in a wide aisle, meant for displays of the titles recommended by the bookstore. They are occupied by what looks like twenty or so people, facing away from me. The sign next to the podium reads:

The Poetry of E.E. Cummings, featuring Michael Frober, Ph.D., professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Chicago.

My tiptoeing didn't pay off. Several heads in the audience turn my way, some curious, others frown at my late arrival, and one happy to see me. Ben sits in the first row with a blond waify woman to his left and an empty chair to his right. He ignores the presenter and his explanations and gestures for me to come and sit on the unoccupied chair right next to him? Didn't Linda make it? Am I supposed to sit by him in her place? Then he whispers something into the ear of the blond sitting on his left. She turns and spears me with her full-on smile better placed on a beauty-pageant contestant. She waves me over as well, and I have no choice but shlep over and sit down in the first row with Ben and Linda.

The man whose voice I've heard when I entered the store is explaining that the poem he's about to read was chosen by Mary G., spends a couple of minutes describing what was going on in the poet's life at the time the poem was written. A screen behind him shows its text with no punctuation or capitalization. How can this be a poem? How about rhyming?

Granted, all my exposure to poetry ended in High School, and Shakespeare and "iambic pentameter" are the two things that come to mind when someone mentions poetry. Before I have a chance to focus the poem is over. What was it even about? Nothing is making sense.

"This poem was submitted by Ben L.." The man with the booming voice, introduces the next piece. "I was hoping someone would select this, it's a favorite of mine." The text appears on the screen behind him.

"This poem was written in 1925, and while it brings the feelings of romantic love to our hearts, it is also a fairly graphic description of two people making love, maybe for the first time or when the relationship is still very new." He begins his recitation.

His voice takes on a very different tone from the previous poem I heard. It starts like fresh honey poured out of a jar, oozing slowly and richly over the first two lines. Picking up speed, he pushes on "better" and "more" with explosive "b" and "m" sounds.

My fingers tingle when he reads on about the feel of the spine and the trembling firm-smoothness. By the time he gets to "again and again and again," the rhythm is pounding. The tingling sensation moves to my lips and down to my belly button. My cheeks heat up. "Over the parting flesh," his voice low and husky reverberates in my sternum. "Under me you so quite new" the last words ring in the silence of the room.

Wow.

The unexpected rawness of the words. The emotional delivery. I'm burning up and my chest teams with unraveled feelings. I expel a deep sigh and give Ben a sideways glance. His intense and searching eyes survey my face. All at once, I can imagine his face leaning to me, closing the distance between us—his lips on mine, slow, warm, yet urgent.

But that's not what happens. Ben turns to the podium as the next poem is on the screen. I lick my lips, my breath uneven, my chest still tight, and feel a gentle, almost feather-like caress of fingers over the top of my left hand, tracing a path from my fingertips to the sleeve of my shirt. Once, twice. I want to turn my palm up and lace my fingers with his. Experience that connection we had in the library again. Only more.

"And this request comes from Linda B.," says Dr. Froeber. "It's a hard one to read, but a fascinating one to look at, so make sure you examine the screen. I'll do my best to do it justice."

Linda. Her name is better than a bucket of cold water. Ben's here on a date with Linda. I jerk away from Ben's touch and stick my hand into my right armpit and attempt to squeeze it into numbness. I don't look back at Ben. I fume inside; the absurdity of the situation isn't lost on me. Is it the impact of poetry? I shouldn't be overreacting to Ben's touch like this. But his proximity amplifies how deep the poignant lines of the poem reached into my gut, responsible for stirring the lust I had no right to feel for him.

Dr. Frober fulfills the rest of the poem requests and adds two more of his favorites to round up the evening. The desire to run away from interacting with Ben in front of Linda takes over and instead of listening, I contemplate my exit strategy. Everyone claps. I grab my bag ready to use this opportunity to scutter away. But damn. A middle-aged woman in a dark green dress, walks up right next to me, blocks the aisle, and makes an announcement about the topic of the following month's reading. She keeps talking, asking everyone to fold their chairs and take them to the storage room—she waves behind her, indicating its whereabouts. Double damn. Why can't I be a chair and escape into the safety of the back room.

Ben suggested on the phone that I could 'just leave'. There's no way I can slip out, but I can delay the inevitable meet-and-greet with Linda-the-librarian. I rocket out of my chair and approach Dr. Froeber at the podium. I ask him some meaningless questions, babbling praise and beaming at the tall and bulky aging professor. Maybe Ben sees I'm busy and leaves.

Who am I kidding? I can feel his eyes drilling holes in my back.

Another woman steps up and sees me taking a breath as the invitation to join the conversation and launch into her own tirade of praise for the professor. Seriously? She couldn't wait her turn? I huff, clutch my damp raincoat to my chest, and face the very couple I was set on avoiding. I'm doing it but I don't have to like it.

Ben stands in the same spot he sat minutes ago. The attendees removed most of their chairs, and an employee is folding the remaining ones. A surprising amount of litter covers the hip poured-concrete floor where the small audience spent barely more than an hour. The middle-aged lady announcer from earlier is moving the detritus with a push broom away from us, eyeing our trio with tight lips and narrowed eyes. Leftover people linger in small groups by the stacks.

Three folded chairs lean against Ben's right thigh. Linda, to his left, has her arm snaked through the crook of his elbow, preventing him from grabbing the chairs or carrying them to the storage room. They aren't talking, but rather watching me, waiting for my approach, like two figurines from the Barrel of Monkeys that were joined together by a child.

"Hi." Linda waves the delicate fingers of her free hand. That spurs Ben into action.

"Amélie." He remains where he was, burdened by Linda and the chairs, summoning me to him. "Let me introduce you to Linda."

"Nice to meet you, Amélie." She raises her voice over the banging of metal on metal and people's conversations behind her. "I guess you did make it after all."

"Hi." I reciprocate. My muscles stiffen and I don't move off my spot about six feet away. A heavy feeling spreads in the pit of my stomach.

Ben ignores the tension I'm emanating, successfully disentangles from Linda's arm and picks up the chairs. "I'm going to take these to the storage room."

Ben's entrapment doesn't sit well with me but Linda doesn't seem to mind. She turns and follows Ben's figure, then steps toward me, her flowery perfume invading my personal space. I squelch my impulse to push her away.

"He's nerd-hot, isn't he?" Her husky conspiratorial voice whispers into my ear. "I was so glad when Tall arranged for him to ask me out. I've been trying to get him to notice me for months. Even considered asking him out myself, but"—she wrinkles her cute button nose in disapproval— "that'd be too desperate."

Linda's undeniably pretty. Her expertly made-up heart-shaped face is a perfect canvas for the bow lips, a small but proportionate nose, and a pair of twinkly green eyes. Her almost too thin, tall, boyish figure makes her look a bit adolescent, but the way she speaks, breathy and with a dash of spice, dissuades me of my initial impression. Linda puts her hand on my shoulder. I try not to flinch.

"He's just so yummy." She might as well be drooling over Ben. He cleans up well: a crisp white shirt stretches over his retreating back and hints at the muscles below. My pulse agrees with Linda, and I feel dirty. I'm a pervert. Not news but I could at least try and resist. "Look at his behind in those pants, and I bet it's even better out of them." Linda echoes my thoughts, and my intense irrational dislike for her grows.

Get out of my head! And out of Ben's pants. What would've been her reaction at Ben in the running shorts? Yep, I'm a hypocrite as well. It's ok for me to ogle Ben or create steamy scenes of him and bodice-rippers in my head, but when Linda insinuates she has plans to get him out of his clothes as soon as she can, it feels wrong. So wrong.

"He's more than just his looks," I say.

"I sure hope so," Linda purrs.

"Hmm." She is shameless. I'm a perfect stranger, why does she think it's ok to say this to me?

"Did you enjoy the event?" Her eyes are on me and I can see her assessing my threat level. By the time she gets to my boots, the pinched look around her mouth relaxes. Really? That was a quick dismissal. I must look even worse than I thought.

"Yes." I stare back and refuse to engage.

"Do you like poetry?"

"No."

"Oh, but are you coming back next month?

I take a page from Ben's book. "I don't know."

She gives up, and she returns to watching Ben's figure as he makes his way back to us. The three of us stand and not say anything. Waiting is not my thing. Between my hate of making choices and that of waiting, I hate choices more, but by a slim margin. We are the only people from the audience in the isle now. I can't stand awkward silence, but I clench my teeth and let the standoff continue. Linda's the first to talk.

"We better get going." There apparently already is a 'we'. The woman moves fast. "Ben, baby, would you be a sweetheart and give me a lift to my apartment." A 'baby' and a 'sweetheart' in one sentence? A bit too much sugar for a first date. I might need a drink of water just hearing that. "Please?" She bats her eyelashes at him. Bats. Her. Eyelashes. "It's still raining, and I forgot to bring my umbrella." Not a Chicagoan then, huh.

She gives Ben her short beige trench coat and he holds it up for her to slide her arm in. She wears blue suede booties and is the same height as Ben. Not what I imagine when someone says 'a librarian'. Everything she wears exudes quiet expensive sex-appeal but, unlike my practical outfit, is utterly inappropriate for the weather.

"You can get a rideshare," I say before Ben has a chance to respond.

"Oh." She furrows her brows in disgust as if I suggested she crawl to her apartment. "I only use private cars or taxis, but it's too late to order one. So much easier to hail one in New York. And anyway, I live very close. I walked here." She squeezes Ben's arm. "You wouldn't mind doing it, baby, would you?" The repeated 'baby' and the saccharine tone of her voice makes me want to put two fingers down my throat. Her other hand traces Ben's bicep but I can't register any reaction on Ben's face. He must be at least a little uncomfortable. Or is it me who's uncomfortable? Am I projecting my feelings onto him?

"No, I can give you a ride, Linda." His voice is smooth and calm, and betrays no emotion. Why can't I guess what's going on in his head?

Linda's all-teeth smile reappears. She directs it at Ben, and a second later at me. You're not winning this one, Linda.

"I will see you tomorrow," I chose to say, instead of a simple goodbye. "I have to tell you about the delicious Tartiflette I made." I let my French accent come out full force on 'tartiflette' with a rolled 'r' and an extra breathy 'te' at the end.

"That's an ambitious dish. Looking forward to hearing about another victory," says Ben, and a shadow of a smile creeps onto his lips.

Linda glances between Ben and me.

"It was so nice to meet one of Ben's friends, Amélie." She turns towards the door and drags Ben with her through the stacks.

I stand there watching them leave. I'm not the kind of a girl who hates other women, but there's something about Linda that makes my blood boil. No one is that perfect. And her treatment of Ben like a present she gets to unwrap makes me sick to my stomach.