You are a young professional, a grad student, or perhaps a particularly studious undergrad, and there is nothing you love more than getting lost in a great book; but those books have also made you into a hopeless romantic, and in your private daydreams you harbor a secret longing for an emotional, intellectual, and physical connection with a strong intelligent older man. You have imagined yourself as Jane Eyre falling in love with Edward Rochester, young Mrs. de Winter to Maximilian, Clare Abshire to Henry DeTamble, or even an older Miss Haze to a less creepy Humbert.

I see you all the time in my day-to-day wanderings. There are many of you out there, but most of you are so quiet, shy, and introverted that it's not easy to penetrate your solitary shell and catch your attention. You carry a book with you everywhere, and you are often so absorbed in your reading that you don't notice the admiring looks you get from older men like me who are beginning to grey at the temples and who have a special weakness for intelligent, thoughtful, introspective young women.

I see you sitting there in the park, on the metro, or in a coffee shop, reading, absorbed in another world, completely oblivious to me as I study you as if you were a Renoir, a Degas, or a Botticelli. My eyes trace the profile of your delicate chin, your sweet little nose, your cute girlish figure, and your pretty hair, a few strands of which have come loose from your pony tail and keep falling into your field of view as you brush them back absentmindedly. Briefly, something distracts you, and you look up just long enough to lock eyes with me. Your eyes are bright and deep, and they look at me with a hint of reproach for staring at you. I smile, and your lips form just the slightest hint of a response, but then you quickly return to your book, refusing to give me the satisfaction of any obvious acknowledgement.

You don't like it when creepy older men stare at you, but somehow when the man is tall, fit, and attractive the whole formula shifts, and you are no longer sure what you like and what you don't. This man looks to be in his mid forties and has an almost paternal gentleness in his demeanor, but you also sense an attraction, a palpable chemistry that is not at all paternal. You noticed a ring on his finger, but it doesn't seem to bother you. You try to keep reading, but you find yourself rereading the same lines over and over. Part of you is annoyed that he has distracted you from your book, and you wish he would go away; but another part of you is secretly intrigued, wondering what would happen if he were to get up, walk over, and sit down next to you. Your heart beats a little faster, and you are suddenly conscious of how you look, the outfit that you picked out for today, the arrangement of your hair.

Suddenly, he stands up. Your heart throbs in your chest as you grip your book and stare at the jumble of words on the page. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his polished leather shoes as he approaches you and stops. What is he doing? What is he waiting for? You want to look up at him a second time, but you are too shy; and the next thing you know, he is walking away. Finally, you look up, but it is too late. You watch the back of his blazer and his well-fitting jeans as he disappears into the crowd.

I understand your shyness. Perhaps that's why you're here. It's unlikely that I will respond to one-liners or generic-sounding replies; but if you don't mind taking a few minutes to tell me something about yourself that you think I might like to know, I will promise to write back to you.