The Library is cool and calm, clear and bright.

She stops typing for a moment to listen to other, busy fingers on warm keyboards, tapping through the room as they echo her own rhythm.  The only other sound she can hear is the gentle hum of air-conditioning, running to keep their space at a constant temperature.

She turns her face up to the open, natural light coming down from above and smiles, eyes closed in a brief moment of pure joy.  She loves the Library and always has.  It is her place of refuge, her solace, where she can be alone, and yet still together with her people.

She looks around at everyone working within their own silent contemplation, towards that shared purpose of knowledge, and perhaps a little wisdom; whether it’s a written journey through books and journals, or a visual journey through pictures and maps.

Inside the smaller library of her own mind, everything is in a state of flux.  Nothing is truly known or believed, except by degrees.  Sometimes there are brief moments of peace, of temporary understanding, and then another thought re-stirs her cauldron of ideas.  Then she begins the cycle anew, until her library is closed.

Or that cycle is interrupted.

She hears a heavy step and turns to see a disorganised pile of books wavering up the stairs.  If they had been sorted according to size and shape, they would not be so precarious, and their owner would not have to grasp each one with a different finger of his large hands.

He sees her looking, and a large open smile beams over the top of his books.  She quickly turns her gaze back to the laptop, leaning forward towards its warmth and encouraging messages.  Today it says ‘You’re an Idiot.  Study Harder.’

She returns to the notes on her screen and pretends rapt attention, re-reading their final line in a last-ditch attempt to reclaim the train of thought she once had.  It has either stopped completely or run on without her to the next station.

She is aware of his tall imposing frame as it moves towards her and then comes to a standstill next to her.  Even after he has stopped, the warmth of his presence continues towards her and she knows he is either looking at her, or more likely at the desk next to her.

She looks across the desk to her partner-in-research for support, but instead sees her smiling at the man stood next to her.  She gestures that if he wants to take any of the empty desks for working on, it’s okay.

It’s not okay.  It’s definitely not okay.

She is about to assert this herself when a mighty thump makes her start.  She looks over at the books dropped onto the desk next to hers and then up at the man who let them collapse like fallen words.

He moves his well-built body with ease as he manouvres the chair to sit down and has a short mop of shiny black hair that appears to have a mind of its own, especially where it curls around his ears.  He is full of charming smiles that she is sure would work on most women, but will not work on her.

It’s hard for her not to return his smile, open and affable as it is, but loud noises in quiet libraries cannot and will not be condoned.  She glares at him until he whispers ‘Sorry’ and offers her yet another smile, but still she doesn’t smile back.

She glares across the desk at her so-called friend, who smiles encouragement to her and mouths ‘he’s nice’.

All of which he sees.

It’s all very well for you.  You’ve already found someone.  You can be as nice to handsome men as you wish.

She returns her attention to the laptop screen, catching a glimpse of the compatriot smile between her so-called friend and her new next-door neighbour.  She refocuses back on her notes and returns to the start of the paragraph in an attempt to discern where her train has gone, if it was ever there to begin with.

She is studying the poetry of William Blake.  Today’s notes are from consulting many books to enhance her understanding of his complex work, ‘The Tyger’.  She bends her head down to re-read the text, and feels an interrupting warmth come close to her again, this time with a purpose.

She takes a moment to compose her annoyance into a polite smile and then turns to address him.  This time, she is greeted with a different smile, a smaller, more circumspect one.

Trying each one to see which will work.  I know your game.

She raises her eyebrows a little to enquire what he wants.

He whispers ‘may I borrow a pencil please?’

She looks down at the pencil case she has brought with her with two spare pencils inside and offers them to him.  He takes the one nearest to him, turns to leave her alone, then turns back but before he can ask for a rubber and sharpener, she already has them proffered.

He takes them, his fingertips gently brushing the skin of her palm, seeming to linger there and she feels her face begin to redden.  She turns away and hears a whispered ‘thanks’ as she nods a curt reply.

She looks back down at her book, tilting her head to the side so her hair hangs down to cover the flush in her face.  She is relieved when he starts to arrange his books and open them to begin making his own notes.

She turns her attention back to the book, to The Tyger and to Blake’s illustration.  She notes how the branches of the tree separate some parts of the poem, bringing other parts together, changing the meaning for her.

She doesn’t notice for a moment that he is looking at her book too and she turns towards him.  He opens his mouth to speak and she makes a ‘Sshhh’ motion with her lips.  He nods and then points to the spare notepad on her desk.  She relents and passes it to him before returning to the poem.

She is aware of the pencil’s noise as he scratches something on her pad and then offers it back to her.

It reads: ‘Do you know why The Tyger is more well-known than The Lamb?’

She thinks about this.

She remembers her grandmother reciting The Tyger to her but doesn’t remember any recitations of The Lamb.  The Tyger was one of the many poems her grandmother could quote by heart, even after the long years had taken other words and memories from her.

So, either her grandmother didn’t recite it, or her own memory is going now.

She writes ‘No.’

He takes the pad back and she watches him writing, then looks up at his face.

He is so keen and earnest, his brow furrowing slightly just above the bridge of his nose as he concentrates on the words, seemingly unaware of her attention.  She catches herself breathing in his warmth again and wants to lean in closer, but she stops and pulls back to her side of the desk.

What he is writing now?  What does he want to say? 

Is it about William Blake or something just for me?

Of course it’s William Blake he’s interested in.  He must have seen the books when he was coming up the stairs and that’s why he came over to the desk.

That makes the most sense.

He finishes writing and looks up at her, smiling at her slightly flushed attention on him and hands her the notepad.

‘The Lamb was written as part of Songs of Innocence and The Tyger was written as part of Blake’s contrary work Songs of Experience.’

This much she knew.

‘To me, it feels like you can have innocence but once you lose it, it can never come back.  Experience is something you get and keep over time.  It can never be lost, only increased and enhanced.  That’s why The Tyger is remembered more than The Lamb, because Experience speaks to us longer and more deeply than Innocence.’

She nods at his insight.

‘Plus, Tygers are cooler.’

A small laugh is surprised from her then and she looks up at him.  At his unwavering clear blue eyes looking directly into hers.  There is no uncertainty in their gaze, only interest and now a kind of knowing regard.

He smiles as he takes the notepad from her again and she watches him write ‘Cup of Tea?’ before passing it back to her, with a look that says he already knows the answer to his question.

She looks across the long desk at her research partner, who is watching the exchange of written words with interest and passes her the notepad.  She reads it down to the end and smiles, offering her an effusive thumbs-up and the words ‘Go for it’.

She looks back at him for the longest moment, staring into his face for the slightest hint of a veil.  Will his resolve weaken as she makes him wait for the answer he seems so sure of?

It doesn’t.  There is no doubt in him.

Finally, she smiles.

Continued in ‘The Café and James MacPherson’