Book Lovers

Another message comes in. A page from the Bigfoot Christmas book, featuring a particularly egregious use of decking the halls, as well as a reference to a sex move called the Voracious Yeti, which doesn’t sound remotely anatomically possible.Libby walks into my periphery. “Already done with the Wi-Fi?”“Thoroughly unplugged,” I reply. “Have you ever heard of the Voracious Yeti?”“That a children’s book?”“Sure.”“I’ll have to look it up.”My phone vibrates with another message: I find the Voracious Yeti highly implausible.I find myself smiling, possibly with knives. So disappointing. Really pulls the reader out of an otherwise stunning work of realism.

There is, of course, the misconception that straight men universally love tall, thin women. Being such a woman, I can debunk this.Many men are too insecure to date a tall woman. Many of those who aren’t are assholes looking for a trophy. It has less to do with attraction than status. Which is only effective if the tall person is a model. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a model, then you must be hot and interesting. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a literary agent, cue the jokes about her wearing your balls on a silver necklace.

I jut my chin toward the wine. “You have to drink all of that. I’ve already had two drinks, and I’m a lightweight.”“Oh, I remember,” he teases, sliding my glass toward me, “but this is wine. It’s the grape juice of alcohol.”I lean across the table, grabbing the bottle and tipping it over his glass until it’s full to the brim. As deadpan as ever, he hunches and slurps from the glass without lifting it.I burst into laughter against my will, and he’s so visibly pleased it gives me a full-body twinge of pride. He wants to make me laugh.

“I think you should know something.” Charlie’s voice fades to a rasp as he leans across the table, goose bumps racing up my legs as his calf brushes mine.I scoot forward too, our knees fitting together under us, like interlocking fingers this time: his, mine, his, mine.He whispers, “You’re not that tall.”I whisper back, “I’m as tall as you.”“I’m not that tall,” he says.What my body hears is, Let’s make out.“Yes, but for men,” I say, “there’s no such thing as too tall.”He holds my gaze far too seriously for this very unserious conversation. My skin buzzes, like my blood is made of iron fillings and his eyes are magnets sweeping over them.“There isn’t for women either. There’s just tall women,” he says, “and the men too insecure to date them.”