The awkward silence between us this time is very awkward indeed.
“Very artistically done,” I say at last. No, I am not blushing. And I’m not stammering. That is not a stammer. Not at all.
He puts the tray of cookies down on a side table. In a quiet and careful voice, he replies, “That’s the literary journal of the oldest b**m society in North America.”
“Oh.”
There’s a literary journal?
“Have you read the poetry of Swinburne?” I finally ask. “Some of his poems combined eroticism and pain.”
“I’m quite fond of Swinburne,” he replies.
“Same here,” I murmur, willing my mug of tea to calm my hands, which are shaking. “It’s amazing the things you can find in libraries.”
My eyes lift and wander back to his shelves. Aside from the bookcase devoted to speculative fiction, there is also
