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way—casually, of course—into the science-fiction section, and every Saturday, the lovely young gentleman from England would ask about what she had read last week. By the third week, she realized he was buying the same books that she was and reading them over the course of the intervening week. Sort of an imaginary book club of two.
    Without all those annoying discussions.
    She liked the idea of him reading contemporary romance novels. One week, she chose a particularly erotic one and then felt compelled to offset it with a dismal dirge of a novel that had won all sorts of literary awards, just in case he thought she was merely depraved.
    And then, every Saturday after her pass through the stacks, she would cross the street and sit at the same small table for two in the front window of the café with a clear view of the bookshop entrance. If he happened to walk out, and she happened to get another good look at him, then so be it.
    Sometimes he waved.
    Usually, she started reading one of the books she had just purchased and missed his exit from the bookstore altogether.
    Then one morning in early May, she was turning the page of her latest penny dreadful and shaking her head with a final, self-deprecating snort, momentarily reliving her tongue-tied foolishness, when that deep, sweet voice asked, “Is this seat taken?”
    And Bronte could do nothing but sigh inwardly with a victorious, Yes! As in: Yes, there is a benevolent power in the force and I am not frigid or emaciated and I may make a new friend-who’s-a-boy today who even pursued me all the way across the street from the bookshop.
    But of course it came out as, “Yes.” In answer to the question, “Is this seat taken?” So she started laughing and then blurted out, “ No , the seat is not taken. Yes , I would like you to sit there.”
    And so it began.
    Bronte felt so rusty at being cheerful, much less flirty, that her halting speech and inept repartee actually made it easier for them to get to know each other. His name was Max Heyworth. He was finishing up his PhD in economics at the University of Chicago before heading back to England in July to be near his family and resume his career in mergers and acquisitions at one of the top firms in the British utilities industry.
    “I finally finished my dissertation last week, the written part at least,” he said, “and I have been thinking all these weeks that following you into this coffee shop today would be my just reward.”
    She liked the idea of being Max’s reward, then felt a touch of melancholy that he would be leaving so soon. Two months was not much time for them to be together, but it was better than none at all. And as her friend April would have pointed out: since Bronte had failed so stupendously with Mr. Texas, she was no longer in the market for a life partner. She was now in the market for the perfect TM.
    “What are you smiling about?” Max asked through his own smile, as he brought his coffee cup to his lips. Strong, curving, kissable lips , thought Bronte.
    “I’m not sure I should tell you, since it will make me sound like a pretty cold customer, but in the interest of my newfound code of brutal honesty, here goes. I was just thinking that my friend April, in New York, has been slinging her own brand of self-help-hash lately, telling me that what I really need to get over my disastrous former relationship is a TM…” Bronte paused and looked into Max’s mischievous gray-blue eyes. Killer eyes , she thought.
    “And…” he prodded.
    “And ‘TM’ stands for ‘Transitional Man,’” she added in a rush.
    A year ago, Bronte probably would have blushed at her own forthrightness, but she had decided months ago that she no longer blushed. Mr. Texas had seen to that. No more speculative moments of potential romance in the eyes of that handsome passing stranger on the way into Water Tower; no more hopeful reveries while watching babies in strollers and children flying kites near the