Do you read here often?

Libraries tome are happy places. For a dorky bibliophile like me, going to the library is an absolute smorgasbord of riches. I'd rather give up meat forever than books (and that's really saying something, because the one time I tried giving up meat, I could feel my cells screaming in agony for some salty animal flesh, 24-7.) Needless to say, library time is sacrosanct.

One day last week after meeting up with RunsInStilletoes and her new boyfriend for breakfast then lunch with p.w., I braved the madding crowds in my neighbourhood town centre and amble blissfully into the library. On hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have been wearing a dress that cut halfway down my sternum, but I was coming from town, and my new policy vis-à-vis relationships is that since I'm not in one, I should at least make other people wish they weren't too.

I plant myself down on a bench with some high-minded literature ("Ange and Johnny's Steamy Sex Scenes! Johnny's Girlfriend Worried!") and absorb myself happily in the Deppster's perfect cheekbones. I moved a few intellectual steps up to Vogue when a voice interrupts me.

"Excuse me, I think the people at the library reception want to talk to you about some admin."

I tear myself away from the world of taffeta and tulle and frown at the guy who's standing in front of me. He's tall-ish and wearing spectacles and has that Singaporean Everyman face. For a second I think he's library IT. "What?" I demand a bit irritably. I loathe being interrupted when reading. Even if it's reading about how to match pencil skirts. "What admin thing?"

"Um, I’m not sure. But they want to speak to you."

I stare at him in not-particularly-friendly-fashion. Library time is ME time and I've been precious little of it this trip back. And this sounded off. "Are you sure they want to talk to me? Do you have the right person?"

I think the narrowed eyes unnerved him a bit, because he dithered a bit before throwing in the towel.

"All right, I confess, I just wanted to get you away from the wall so I could talk to you."

Gawd. I couldn't help but snark. "And that's the best you could come up with?"

He looked so abashed and nervous that I couldn't help but feel a little bad. Stupid fatarse. Stupid heartbreak has made me soft about inflicting righteous hurt on people. And so (argh the embarrassment I feel confessing this) I relented. Me! Relenting! Unacceptable! That’s like Gordon Ramsay saying "Oh, nice try!" when someone's souffle fails to rise.

I ended up giving him a chance, just in case he was just horribly nervous and wasn't actually a ninny.

He told me he was an 'actor’, to which I immediately said, "Oh, really? Stage or TV?" He told me he did stage work with a perfectly sincere expression. "So do you know Miss J?" I asked him. He looked blank, an expression which I was going to become rapidly familiar with over the next ten minutes. I named productions Miss J's done. Same godlfish stare. So I decided I was going about this the wrong way and asked him what productions he'd been in.

"Um.. I mainly do plays for schools."

Cue sound of crickets chirping.

To my massive credit, even though the Eyebrow of Derision twitched madly, it did not rise. Boy, did it want to though.

The conversation went on with him talking about, at one point, the importance of context and how characterization alone in novels was insufficient to provide a good reading experience. My eyes were beginning to get a telltale glaze so in an effort to divert him from his intense dissection of the overlay of situational significance in the American novel, I asked him what else he did besides (muffled snigger) school plays.

"Oh, I do a form of Filipino martial arts. I actually act to fund my passion for martial arts. I want to do it full-time as some point."

He paused then, perhaps hoping that I would make some sort of admiring comment about how unique and macho that was. Sadly, having been kissing-close to men who collected knives and swords and who did martial arts in various forms, hearing yet another one proudly proclaim his alleged virility by way of a stylized form of ritual fight in an attempt to bolster insecurities about self-image really doesn't impress me. So I just went "Oh." Politely. But with little interest.

Perhaps because he failed to elicit the female admiration he was looking for, he elaborated. "Yes, I used to do muay thai (egad, the most recently trendy and clichéd way to establish your macho credentials) but I wanted something which was more real-world offensive." Oh give me a break. Mental eye-rolling, but again, the Eyebrow of Derision did not twitch skywards.

"So where do you take these classes?" I ask him, after he natters on about him individual coaching, as it suddenly occurs to me how freaky it would be if him and Fatarse actually knew each other. He mistakes my suddenly interrogative tone as interest and brightens.

"At my void deck," he replied.

This time the Eyebrow of Derision didn't just rise, it SHOT up the horrified plane of my forehead like it had been fired from a cannon “The..void...deck," I repeated slowly, jut to make sure.

"Yes, because this way he saves on having a shopfront," he nodded sagely. And then reveals that he was at the library, not for the pleasure of reading, but because he wanted somewhere quiet where he could 'visualize his moves'.

I didn't actually manage to stifle the laughter this time. It flew out of my throat like confetti at a tickertape parade.

It was most definitely at this point where I stopped being nice.

"So, you said you wanted to take your ‘martial arts’ (he totally missed the verbal quote marks I placed around the words) full time. How do you plan to do that?"

"Well, I basically want to travel and coach martial arts at the same time."

"Uh huh. And where do you plan to go?"

"Um...I'm not sure yet. Maybe the Philippines."

"And how do you plan to fund it? Because it’s not like you're working in a real job right now." Zing! I don't need a scalpel to do castration.

"Um...I dunno." I arch another eyebrow at him and throw in some narrowed eye for good measure and he ties to recover with a falsely-casual, "I'm not really much of a planner, I'm more of a take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy."

"So, you’re 31 and basically not sure what you want to do or how to go about achieving what you want."

"Umm....."
I let the silence stretch out like embarrassment taffy. He returns my faux-amiable dead-on fish stare with a slightly bewildered look, a bit like when The Fuzzy stares at the TV and wonders why there are funny voices coming out from it.

"You know, this is kind of the point where you pick up the conversational ball and try and run with it."

More fearful silence.

"Nothing? Hunh. Do I make you nervous?"

"...yes."

Needless to say, he did not get my number.