Read Love Is Red for Free Online Page B

came unbidden into their presence from the woods, without kinsman or clan. And whether the Maiden was fair or not, it could not be agreed upon, for her hair was as dark as a raven’s wing and her eyes were as black as a starless night. But since she was a maiden and all alone, the wives offered to take her in. However she refused their charity and let it be known that she would earn her keep. For she claimed to have a wondrous skill for brewing drink, be it ale or wine.
    All who heard this would have her make sure of her boast and so they took her to meet the alewife at the tavern there. Then the alewife, as stout as she was fierce, said, “Come, we shall see your skill for all your talk, but if you cannot best me then you shall be silent and work for your keep in some other manner.” Forshe hated on sight the Maiden’s youth and loveliness and feared for her business.
    Word traveled around the village that such a match was taking place and all the people came, noisy and rough with their bowls to taste the brew. The alewife grew red in the face as she stirred and stirred and sweated over the ladle, but the Maiden kept as gentle as the breeze and as cool as the water and the people remarked how she neither sweated nor strained, but only smiled and crooned a little song:
    Â 
    Grown from the earth,
    Golden in worth.
    Barley and wheat,
    Belly full sweet.
    Â 
    She stirred and hummed, and by and by both brews were ready for the tasting. Though the tavern wife’s ale was neither bad nor bitter, the Maid was declared the victor, for the people said they could not remember a time when they had tasted such a drink. It held full summer and sweet kisses, bubbling brooks and fresh bread, and made them exceedingly merry and gay, and they clamored for more, using their hands to scoop up the remains, and fell to fighting over the last drops.
    ----

4
    There’s somebody coughing in the Rose Main Reading room of the New York Public Library. Deep racking, hacking coughs. You look up. Locate the cougher. He’s two tables down from you, a white-haired man in his fifties with an angry expression, earnest, staring deep into his laptop screen. Look down again. Again the cough, again you look up. This time you catch the eye of another disturbed reader as she turns around and then back again. A girl in her twenties, sitting at your table, with shining red shoulder-length hair. You exchange a quick smile, a second at the most. You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Otherwise it might be creepy. A minute goes by, another, and then he coughs again. You both look up again, this time she’s waiting for you, wanting to connect with you. Connect with the attractive man at her table. Now you can maintain eye contact. A smile. You’re in this together as that old selfish asshole coughs and coughs.
    Aren’t other people hell?
    You allow your smile to spread; then you get up and walk over, around to her. You do this quickly. She stiffens. Suddenly she’s nervous. She’s thinking, Smile at some guy, and it’s a come-on. She’s thinking, I’ll tell him I have a boyfriend. She’s thinking, A womanwas found murdered the other day. You lean over, her shoulders are tight, she’s ready to flee. Flight or fight or not fight, exactly, she’ll just scorn you. You lean over and whisper, “Sorry, can you keep an eye on my stuff for just a moment?”
    Her shoulders descend. She exhales. Jesus, you made her nervous, but now she’s already chastising herself. Look at the way you’re dressed—there’s no way you could be crazy.
    You walk with a quiet confidence out of the silent section of the library. You can feel that she’s secretly watching you, taking in all the clues about who you are, your shirt, your pants, your shoes. Her father once told her, “Never trust a man with gray shoes.” Your shoes are not gray. They’re black. Almost a little old for you