Jane Air

love story?”
“It’s a story dealing with romance.”
“What else?”
“Sex.”
She grins. “What else?”
“Two people meet. They like each other. They can’t be together for some reason. The reason goes away. Then they can be together. And that’s it.”
She nods again. Silence.
Shit.
Still wrong.
“What was the last great love story you watched?”
“Um…” I pause. “I guess the Wuthering Heights version I watched last week.”
“Nope,” she waves a finger and shakes her head. “That’s based on a book. It doesn’t count. What was the last great love story, on TV or film, that you saw. Not one based on a book.”
“You’ve Got Mail was on TV a few weeks ago. I watched that.”
“That’s a romantic comedy. I mean a straight-up love story, where the focus of the whole movie or show is on the couple.”
Silence.
Nothing.
Literally nothing.
Apparently, I am terrible at watching love stories.
“Honestly, when you describe it that way, all that comes to mind is porn.”
She laughs again. “Why is that?”
“Well, in porn-”
“No,” she holds her hand. “Not porn. Why can you not think of the title of a love story film? You work in movies. You should know a million movie titles.”
“I don’t watch a lot of romance,” I pause. “Although, in fairness, there aren’t many films that would meet that qualification.”
“Why?”
“Because it would never sell.”
“Why?”
“I guess it would be boring.”
“Why?”
She really loves that word.
“Because…” I stare at her, her eyes on mine. I feel her, almost telepathically, guiding me towards the answer. This, this right here. This is a good teacher. “Because love is internal. And movies are external. It’s hard to show the development of feelings because feelings are inside of us, and actions are outside of us. So, unless it’s a very physical love story, or a physically funny love story, romance does not translate well to film.”
“That’s good,” she nods. That look again. The slight squint to her eyes. As if she is trying to figure out a puzzle, or a slight of hand trick. “That’s very good.”
“So, if romance is always internal, if the character arc is internal, then the narrative of romance revolves around how the characters change inside. So all romance is about change. Characters who aren’t in love, fall in love. That changes them. And the love they feel for each other changes them too. The definition of a love story is one in which the characters grow as people through their romantic relationship together.”
“Yes, um…” she stutters slightly, removing her glasses to polish them on her shirt. “Yes. Traditional notions and changing definitions of romance and romantic love aside, the general consensus from a modern perspective is, uh, exactly as you put it.”
She places the glasses back on her face, framing those beautiful eyes behind the glass.
“I got it right?”
She nods again. “Yup.”
I grin. I can’t help it. She’s so cute when she’s flustered.
“You don’t seem like a woman who gets surprised very often, Jane.”
“I’m not,” she adjusts her glasses on her nose, “usually.”
“I feel like I surprised you. Just now.”
“You did. Well done.”
“I think this calls for a celebration.”
She glances at her watch.
“Do you have plans?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.
“No.”
“Do you want plans?”
Her mouth opens and closes. I grin again. I enjoy this, catching her off balance. Surprising her. Watching that serious, organized exterior rattle, just a little bit.
“I’d like to visit your friend’s cafe again. And try that amazing pie you recommended last week.”
“Tonight?”
“Why don’t we go now?”
“Right now?”
“Do you have somewhere else you want to be?” Need to be, I should have said, but I didn’t, sneaking the word in there, to see how she’ll react.
“No-” she catches herself, realizing what she’s just given away.
“Then let’s get pie.”
She stays seated, looking at me. There’s a flash of something, something deep and quiet and seldom seen behind her eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I catch it, the tail end of it.
Fear.
“You don’t have to,” I say softly. “I think it’s clear by now my threat to call the police was a bluff.”
She opens her mouth again, something quieter than a laugh escapes.
I stand, holding my hand out to her. “It’s only pie.”

10
Jane
“The air is so clean up here.”
I turn, my eyes pulled from the bright green and blue of the trees and sky flying past my passenger seat window.
“How can you tell?” I ask. “You never go outside.”
“I go outside,” he laughs. The deep, male sound. Less a laugh and more of a rumble, lower than common decency should allow. “I just keep to myself.”
“You said you’d been to Dory’s before.” I glance at him, trying not to stare, but it’s hard.
The car, some European brand I guess, not that I have any idea, is a smooth ride. Dark blue on the outside, black interior. Leather seats. I watch his hand grip the stick, shifting smoothly between gears, a skill I myself have never mastered. His thighs flex beneath his jeans as he shifts the clutch, left hand gripping the steering wheel. He smiles at me, those silver eyes twinkling and I feel prickles of sweat dot my hairline.
It’s absurd, really, that a man should be this good-looking. It’s just unfair. Unfair to straight women and gay men, who need to be able to function during their day and can’t just collapse in a heap whenever this perfect specimen walks by. And unfair to straight men. My god, after five minutes in his company I’m ready to give up dating forever. What would be the point? Everyone else is second best.
I wonder if he has many lesbian friends.
He should. They’re the only ones who could survive him.
Not that I date a lot. Again, what would be the point? Between preparing for classes, grading papers, and trying to get a book out before my tenure review, I have barely enough time to see my friends, let alone a boyfriend. Add in the costs of dating, the frustration of swiping right when everyone else seems to be swiping left, and trying to match schedules… What’s the