The minute she walked into the bookstore, I knew I would pick her up. She had that tentative yet curious manner of circling the displays and she stayed too long. I had worked at the Turn of the Page Bookstore for more than three months now and there were certain patterns I’d noticed among the clientele. People who were going to buy usually did so within five or ten minutes. Those who came for other reasons stayed longer. She must have had other reasons because she’d been in the store over half an hour when she finally approached the counter and asked, tentatively yet hopefully, for a book on Woody Allen. I told her I didn’t think we had it, but if we did it would be toward the back in the motion picture section. At this point I knew it was only a question of who was going to break the routine first–break out of the formal, polite cadence of question/answer and become more personal. As I watched her move through the small store, I evaluated the risks and made my decision. It was close to closing time, and by now we were the only ones in the store. I called out to her.

“It may be in comedy too.”

“I don’t think you have it.” she replied. “I’ve been looking all over for it.”

“Where have you looked?”

“Oh, here and there…you know.” She was faking it and at last I had my opening. The risk had paid off and I was now on secure ground. I plunged ahead with renewed confidence.

“How long have you been in the city?”

“About two weeks.” She was now more hopeful than tentative.

“Where are you from?” I pressed my advantage.

“North Carolina, near Greensboro. I came on the bus about two weeks ago.”

“You don’t have too much of an accent.”

“Yeah, I’m working on it. I want to be an actress. I guess New York is the place for that, Huh?”

“I guess,” I replied in a non-committal way, hoping to suggest I was a vast reservoir of acting lore and theatre contacts. It worked.

“You don’t know any actors, do you?” she begged, excitedly.

“A few,” I stated with just the right amount of smug control and the hook was set. She was all over me now, like an ecstatic puppy. I was the pro, the insider, the savvy New Yorker who would show her the ropes. I glowed with the thrill of conquest and invented pat answers to her rapid questions about the theatre. This was almost too easy.