I cruise the Philosophy section of Hodges Figgis, watching, waiting. Like an old-fashioned spy I stand there on the third floor, book held up high for cover, my eyes glancing left then right over the top of it, solicitously. There are a lot of people around this afternoon; the rain has brought them in. For a while now I’ve been watching them hovering politely by the shelves, and it perturbs me to see them wanting to appear so proudly aloof from one another. Separate, despite their intimacy. Lonesome, despite their shared interests. Private and untouchable: that desperate middle-class nervous thing. The worst side of bookishness. I go back to my book, the alluring title of which is A Lover’s Discourse, and I read a few lines: the lover’s discourse is today of an extreme solitude. But before these words have time to sink in, a young woman, an attractive student-type, comes and stands next to me. Her jaw-length reddish-brown hair is wet from the rain, and she curls a strand of it back behind her ear as she tilts her head, browsing. Beneath her damp, navy denim jacket she wears a black shirt, open at the neck. Scanning the shelves, she moves closer to me, and I have to take a step back to let her reach in for what she needs. The proximity is unbearable. I curl my toes down hard into the soles of my boots and squeeze them there, tightly, in order to dissipate the tension, to savor the self-restraint. I glance up and see her lift a copy of Jacques Derrida from the shelf. She takes a step back to her previous mark, turns a little towards me, and smiles. I catch a glimpse of her thin dark lips, the sparkling darkness in the amour fou of her eyes. I have a type, I admit it, and she fits it perfectly. When she opens the book the front cover glares at me: On Touching. I look down at the page I am reading but I can barely follow a sentence. She’s picked up that book in order to signal to me. My mind races. I look over at her now. She does not return my gaze. Desperate to tempt this further, I prepare myself for a casual remark. But before I can cross that stunning divide, she closes the book, places it back between the others, turns, and walks away. With no parting sign or invitation to follow the whole ritual falls asunder. But still, I can hardly contain myself: Touch me. Soft Eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. Quiet here alone.