Leopold

2 | September 5th

2 | September 5th

"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more." - Jane Austen

“That’s why Jane Austen is such an empowering source for feminists. If more of these female activists fell back on their roots, imagine the powerful arguments they could create. I mean, read any of her books; yeah, they’re about love and loss and finding a suitable husband, but I dare you to find any time when her heroine gives up who she is for a man. In Emma, Knightly treats Emma as his equal, which is what ultimately wins her over.”

The woman fidgeted with the hem of her denim skort, a thin line of perspiration forming along her hairline. When she asked for my recommendation, I don’t think she expected, well, this.

The woman swallowed, her entire facing screwing up in an uncomfortable position. “Is this … is it … an … easy read?”

I hesitated, and, for a brief moment, she looked terrified. “This is abridged,” I told her, “so it focuses more on the storyline then, say, eighteenth century etiquette and English politics.”

She stared at me, open mouthed, and I rushed the last part of my dramatic soliloquy into one long, forced sentence. “And, c’mon, it’s only ninety-nine cents for a revised, simplified version of a classic, something that enhances cultural literacy –“ By now, I was cringing, “- so it’s worth it. At least, by my standards.”

As she blinked, slowly, I could almost feel the regret pulsating off her body. Honestly – here she was, standing in a poorly air-conditioned room, suffering through a ten-minute monologue encompassing Emma and the degrading state of female independence. She could have been grocery shopping, or picking up her toddler from daycare, but somehow I’ve managed to suck a good ten minutes from her day. And mine.

I felt bad. Which is probably why I told her to just take it, letting her toss my favorite Jane Austen novel into her handbag alongside crumpled tissues and half-empty disinfectant.

She shot me another wary glance – next I’d be waving my arms and shouting about imperialism – before shuffling out the door. Even the doorbell sounded defeated, completely exhausted by this social encounter.

Waldo, who was alternating between nibbling on his pinky finger and scribbling in his bankbook, laughed at my dark expression. “Very funny. Wait. Not funny? Not funny. Grim. Very grim. Disaster.”

I poked an accusing finger in his direction. “You should have helped.”

“You were doing just fine.” When I scoffed, he added, “I find your views on feminism very, uh, enlightening.”

“Enlightening,” I waggled my fingers around in a vague attempt at air quotations, “is so seventeenth century.”

He grinned; even though I claimed to despise his historical humor, it was rubbing off on me. The horror. “You never finished telling me about your first day. Is Mount Fern still the – what did you call it? – “

I cut him off. “Fine. It was fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”