I was down at BMV at Yonge and Edward Sts. today around half past noon, there to whittle away the last half hour of my lunchtime.

I will say now that I realistically do not need any more books. And really, I've become so frugal that even BMV's prices are too much for me, but the air-conditioning was irresistible after the sunny, baking street. I also wanted to check up on whether one of the clerks had finally sensibly trimmed back his awful facial hair. (He had not.)

I was idling in front of the plays and poetry when a rather burly man -- looking as though he'd be more comfortable in a t-shirt and shorts on a patio rather than white polo sports shirt and clean faded jeans in a jazz-filled bookstore -- walked by me and called out to his pal in a voice touched with the smallest edge of panic, "Do they have a romance section?"

His friend muttered under his breath and turned slightly away, engrossed in a manly mystery thriller.

"They must have a romance section, right? Where is it?"

I, in all honesty, could only keep myself from laughing out loud by sniggering; it was the lesser and kinder and possibly safer -- seeing as I was shorter, lighter, and weaker -- of two evils. Luckily, I was edging away at that point in anticipation of my mirth and I don't think anyone heard or saw. But it was all too irresistibly funny and cute.