She opened the cover. Inside, pressed between the pages like a dried leaf, was the envelope. She looked at him. He looked at the floor.

Dear Radha , he wrote. Then crossed it out. Too formal.

He had written his Premalekhanam at last.

I am old. My knees hurt. I read the same Basheer book seven times because it has your thumbprint on page 42. I don't know romance. I know tea, cardamom, and the way you push your glasses up when you’re annoyed. I would like to walk with you to the temple pond on Sunday. Not because it's romantic. Because I think the ducks would like you.

My darling librarian , he wrote. Then crossed it out. Too ridiculous.

Now she was gone. And he was in love with the new librarian, Radha.

"Slow reader."

"I know," he said.