I have a date coming over, and I’m standing in front of my bookshelf wondering whether seven books need to spend the evening in the closet.
Most of the shelf is romance. There’s the sweet stuff, there’s the dark stuff, and I’m perfectly happy to let someone browse either end. Apparently I can explain an alarming fictional boyfriend with a straight face. It’s the educational section that has me considering a temporary relocation.
There’s Come as You Are, Come Together, She Comes First, Slow Sex, and Joys of Sex. Then there’s Human Reproductive Biology, which sounds like it ought to come with a lab fee. Finally, there’s Orgasms: How to Have Them, Give Them, and Keep Them. I can picture my date starting to ask what that one’s about, getting halfway through the subtitle, and realizing the book has already handled the question.
The closet would solve the immediate problem in about thirty seconds. Of course, I’d then spend part of the date knowing I’d hidden a textbook behind my clothes. I’m also giving my date a lot of credit for reading spines. They could walk right past the entire shelf, in which case I’d have done all that work for an audience of one.
I suppose I could leave the books where they are and see what happens. If my date asks about one, I can say I was curious and bought a book. If they ask why there are seven, I may have to admit I’m the kind of person who buys a second book while still reading the first.
So I guess I’m embracing the weirdness. Human Reproductive Biology can stay right where it is.
