"The smell of books - the old, the new - addicting."
"I understand. But, we are supposed to talk about the problem you came here with. I am starting the timer. Sixty minutes."
"Umm-, that's what the problem is."
"That the books are addicting?"
"No. She is addicting."
"But, you were talking about the books - the old, the new."
"That, I was talking about the beginning of our story."
"So, there is a girl?"
He nodded. "There was, actually."
"Oh, I am sorry. How did it happen?"
"No, I did not mean that. She is very much alive, I guess. And I hope."
"Then what is the problem? A break up?"
"Not at all. We were never together, to break up."
"Then, who is she?"
"A critic of clichéd romance fictions, whom I am not able to stop thinking about, nor am I able to concentrate on anything else, and for this reason, I believe that my job is at stake. That's my problem. I met her for the first time, a week ago. And since then, she is stuck to my mind like glue. I know, that's a gross way to describe my situation, but it is what it is."
The other person smiled, sheepishly, but, composing himself, "Continue, please," he said, and flipped over the page of his notepad.
He breathed sharply and nodded, continuing.
He was at the routined place, his natural habitat, like he could be found, every evening, every holiday - every weekend, spending his time, between a heap of books - or rather, a heap of clichéd romance fictions - The ones with the protagonists totally in love, or the ones with enemies falling in love, or the ones where separations were too hard on the heart - some magnificent authors, some lamentable authors, some juvenile and some promising ones - every stance on love, compassion, warmth, was important to him. No, he was not a sixteen year old chap, juggling between the phases of his boyhood and manhood, researching for knowledge on the concept of love and the myriad of cheesy ways to impress or bedazzle his girlfriend, a year junior to him in school, and neither was he a person binging on some random fictions for his pass-time, like almost seventy percent of the people in this library, or any, do. Rather, he was a twenty-eight year old man, who has never been in love before, but, still, still, keeps the audacity to write romance fictions, which are besotted by those newly-in-love teenagers, those secret one-sided lovers, the young adults, and obviously, some well-grown adults, who still enjoyed sneaking into their youth, escaping from the rest of the intellectuals talking of the potential occurrence of world war III or some random religious politics of a secular country, for some teensy-weensy moments. And for some extra information, he is not a person, who left everything else, for writing fictions, which would hardly earn him enough to pay his bills, but, he had done himself enough mercy by completing his education, even though it meant sidelining his writing for a while. He was a person earning a fair amount for his living, for the time he spends before those know-it-all machines - forty-five hours, in a single, damn week - at a renowned, infotech company, down the south.
