“I beg your pardon.”

The first thing I noticed about her was her voice, because I heard it before I actually looked up and saw her. Her voice was low in pitch, husky, and her accent was European.

It got my attention. Then I looked across the counter at her. I don’t suppose my heart actually stood still, or skipped a beat, or did any of those things that give cardiologists the jimjams, but it certainly took notice.

How do you describe a beautiful woman, short of littering the page with tiresome adjectives? I could tell you her height (five-seven), her hair color (light brown with red highlights), her complexion (light, clear, and flawless). I could inventory her features, striving for clinical detachment (a high, broad forehead, a strong brow line, large well-spaced eyes, a straight and slender nose). Or I could let my inventory reveal that I was smitten (skin like ivory that had learned to blush, brown eyes deep enough to drown in, a mouth made for kissing). Sorry, I can’t do it. You’ll have to imagine her for yourself.

Of all the bookstores in all the towns in all the world, she walked into mine.

“I did not want to disturb you,” she said. “You seemed so deep in thought.”

“I was reading,” I said. “Nothing important.”

“What are you reading?”

“The history of civilization.”

She raised her perfect eyebrows. “Nothing important?”

“Well, nothing that can’t wait. The Sumerians have been waiting for thousands of years. They can wait a little longer.”

“You are reading about the Sumerians?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “They’re the first civilization in the book, but I haven’t gotten to them yet. I’m still back there in prehistory.”

“Ah.”

“Early Man,” I said. “His hopes, his fears, his dreams of a better tomorrow. His endearing customs.”