A shy public reference librarian, and a college dropout who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, encounter each other in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over...
The maples have shed their leaves. Bright yellow windfall clumps on pavement and lawns, a defiant contrast to the gloom of the afternoon sky. As I walk from the bus stop down the street, a cold, light rain begins to fall. I pull my coat closer to my body.
His apartment, which is part of what used to be a large, sprawling house before it was divided into separate units, is at the end of the street. Some of the other people in it have turned on their entrance lights, the way many of the houses on this street have, for the trick-or-treaters. He isn't passing out candy this year. His paycheck didn't stretch far enough to allow for both candy and rent. Maybe after tonight, when the candy goes on clearance, it will be another story. We do both like chocolate.
I reach the apartment building, enter, and walk up a flight of stairs to his door. A single ear of corn hangs from it as decoration.
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He looks at me thoughtfully. "It's interesting," he says. "There's something about you – some kind of inner presence. You have a certain untouchable, virginal quality about you."
"Really? After all this?" I smile. "I don't see how that's possible. I think the only part of me that's still inviolate is my left nostril."
"No, no, you know that's not what I mean. I refer to your self-containment." He pauses. "You're unusually self-possessed. Also, you also seem to have a sort of regenerative tendency. I've noticed that you always grow yourself back, somehow, should an event happen in your life that cuts you down – losing your family, losing your ability to attend college, losing your wealth – nothing has ever broken you. It's a very good quality to have. I think we'll be glad of that tonight."
If he's trying to cheer me up, it's not working.
"Do you still want to do this?"
"It's not a matter of want. I still need to do this. You know that."
I smile nervously, pick a few seeds out of the sliced pomegranate that sits on the kitchen table, pop them in my mouth, and go back to my reading, of which there has continued to be a ridiculous amount. It's all been related to the initiation I'll be going through tonight. He wants me to be well-prepared. It seems like every week's reading list was longer than the one from the week before it.
I've even helped him write the ceremony. Well, I helped him write some of it, namely, the parts of it that aren't meant to surprise me – which would be less than half of it. What I did contribute, though, was important in its own way.
