She was wearing a black and grey knit dress, with a sheer shirt that showed off a hint of her bra. Her long legs were clad in brown tights that weren’t quite fishnets, but were of some woven or knitted material that I don’t know how to describe. I followed her up the stairs to my library.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” I said.

My library isn’t large. It’s more of a study or a home office. My bookshelves dominate the room, dwarfing the clutter. They cover two adjacent walls. Of the other walls, one has a long window, and one my desk, filing cabinet, and printer. Every flat surface is piled high with more books and papers, save one. That surface is taken up by a humidor, a pipe rack, bottles of ink, and G.Jackie, my typewriter.

“Is that a bar?” She was looking at my globe bar. I flipped open the top and demonstrated. All I had was the bottom half of a bottle of Aberlour 12-year. She didn’t want a drink.

She settled comfortably into my blue wing-backed reading chair and crossed her superhero legs. She folded her hands in her lap and surveyed the room. I sat across from her.

“When I first moved in,” I said, “I still had money. I decided to make sure I had a good working space.”

As I talked, I rolled a joint.

“I got a bunch of bookcases, the globe bar, and this other furniture. I finally brought all of my books out of storage. I spent a couple of weeks organizing everything and turning this into the best library I could.”

I lit the joint, took a long drag, and handed it to her.

“Then I turned it into a dump,” I finished. My cat knocked over a stack of papers and files and flopped onto the floor.

She smiled and, as usual, my heart skipped. “I’m sure this is what a working library is supposed to look like. Oh,” she raised an eyebrow, “A Guide to Latex?”

“It’s not what you think,” I laughed, and handed her A Guide to LaTeX2ε: Document Preparation for Beginners and Advanced Users. She took one look and added it to the pile closest to her.

“Have you read all of these?” She ran her eyes along the shelves.

“No, but I know where each book is.”

“Every book?”

“Yes, I think so. Most of them, at least.”

“That’s impossible. Let’s test,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes. I could feel her move about the room. I could smell her over the smoke.

“Ten Plays by Euripides,” she said, finally. I stood, opened my eyes, and pointed to the book. I smiled as I sat down again and closed my eyes.

“Wheelock’s Latin.” Again, I opened my eyes and pointed right at the book.

“Oh, come on. I’ll find something harder.”

I sat with my eyes closed. I could still feel her as she stood by me. I could hear every little movement. She was taking a while, and she sighed in indecision.

“Pick something boring,” I suggested, “and stay away from reference books.”

“Aha, perfect! Understanding Manhood in America.”

I opened my eyes. “By my buddy, Bob Davis.” I stood and pointed right at the book.

“This is impossible! One more.”

She was taking longer this time. I tried to sit patiently with my eyes closed, but in my mind I could see her every move. I could see her examining the shelves, reading, bending over, trying to figure out how boring the book might be. How would she know which ones I’d read? How could she pick one? I imagined her fingers running along the spines as she evaluated titles. I saw the ideas running through her mind as she came across the strangest of my books. In the library of my memory, she was an invading angel. To see these books and to study them is to learn ideas and words that shaped who I am. I watched her flit amongst the brightly-colored books in my mind.

I was tense and my senses awakened. I drummed my fingers deliberately on the arm of the chair. The imagenes and loci of my memory library welcomed her. My eyes stayed closed. Her smell and presence were palpable in both worlds.

“In Praise of Folly,” she said in a low voice.

“By Desiderius Erasmus!” I said triumphantly, rising, ready to point. I stopped. Where was that book? What did it look like? Months ago I’d been looking for it. I hadn’t been able to find it then, but she’d found it now. I frowned at the shelf where I expected the book to be, but it still wasn’t there.

“I’m stumped,” I finally admitted.

She smiled again, and with slender fingers pulled a slim black volume from the shelf.