The 'red librarian' started out as a joke between Jacob and me. There's such a stereotype surrounding librarians: buttoned-up, prim, proper women. You know the type: butter wouldn't melt in their pursed mouths, nor would a sheet of paper wedge between their knees. But there's also the stereotype of the "lipstick librarian" -- the flamboyant, reactionary woman who rebels from that stereotype and creates her own look.

You debated whether or not to write this part of the series, because you do not tell all your stories, and those told are often told with a maddening degree of obfuscation.

You could blame it on his glasses; you often do. It is easier for you to point to some unrelated circumstance and say, "This provoked me," when in fact you made your own choices based on criteria known only to yourself.

I've written about you before, in entries both public and private.  In the years before private entries I often avoided acknowledging you by name, allowing the unaware  to draw the conclusion that I must actually be speaking of the person I married.

It was not always the case.

For this installment, instead of starting with new words, I will acknowledge some old ones that were about you all along:

[This entry, for obvious reasons, is restricted.]

I never expected to have anyone like you in my life. Our story is as improbable as it is salacious, and while I may not be able to talk about it honestly with everyone I know, it still matters to me more than I think you have ever realized.

How to say? How to acknowledge? Privacy means privacy, and thankfully I'm notable for being able to state the obvious in words that make things not so, so perhaps this is the best way to break through a multiple-month logjam of silence and say what needs saying.(Inscrutable? Sorry; this is a private message posted semi-publicly.)

There is no 'me and you,' and never has been; this funny friendship has meant many things over the years, most unspoken and unacknowledged, but there for both of us. Easter brought you back to me, reminded me of why I have Life A here in Huntsville and Life B in Atlanta, reminded me of why I think the drive is worth it and why I'm unlikely ever to have a life, singular, in one place or the other.

He came back toward me, with an intentness of purpose that told me what I needed to know, even before he said it:"It's just after midnight. Happy birthday."

At the end of the night, past the music and the conversation, Chris and I pulled out the sofa bed for him. As we did, the random shuffle served up Diana Krall's take on Joni Mitchell and I realized with a sudden hitch of breath that this little throwaway moment would be one that I remembered. She whispered her way through 'A Case Of You' while we untangled a purring, bright-eyed Tenzing from the sheets we wanted to place on the sofa bed.