Fridays were typically busy. English Language Workshops during the day, then Book Club on Friday nights. Because this was Surry Hills, hipster central, it was where all the nerds and geeks could come to be awkward introverts together. I quite often spent my Friday nights in a room full of like-minded people, avoiding eye contact and dying inside every time someone tried to make small talk.

That’s the thing about me.

I’m an awkward, introvert book nerd, sci-fi geeky twenty-six-year-old librarian, with brownish-ginger hair. Oh, and I’m a gay man. I’m also an expert in Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and Wordsworth… or just all French Revolutionary poets in general, really. I also have to wear some item of clothing that is perfectly colour-coordinated with my shoes, and I have an inclination to say motherfucker an awful lot. Oh, and there is also a very good chance I’m asexual.

The jury was still out on that. Actually, that wasn’t true; the jury had been in for some time, I’d just been resisting their verdict. I didn’t need another label. I had enough of them. I had enough hang-ups, quirks, traits, and societal boxes to tick and squeeze myself into.

I didn’t need one more.

But I couldn’t decide if having one more label was causing my anxiety to spike or if not having the label confirmed was what gave me anxiety. Maybe I needed the label. Maybe everyone could fuck the fuck off and let me live in my anxiety bubble of non-asexualness. Maybe whoever wrote that article online and said “asexuality is defined by the absence of something” can fuck off too.

And that’s where I was up to when Merry found me, with my forehead pressed up against The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck in the How Ironic section, mumbling to myself. “You doing okay, Jordan?” she asked.

“To define asexuality by the absence of anything infers that something is missing and therefore incomplete or insufficient.” I looked at her. “I am not any of those things, and I resent the implication—”

She put her hand up and spoke over me. Gently, but firmly, like she knew how to deal with me, or something. “The article goes on to explain that by definition, the absence of sexual attraction makes it difficult to label and the resulting struggle to identify with something that is, by definition, the lack of something.”

I sighed petulantly. “I didn’t read that far.”

“I gathered.”

“Did Mrs Peterson seem okay?”

Merry smiled. “Of course, she was fine.”

“I’m sorry about that, and I’m really thankful you swooped in to save me. Again. So, thank you.”

“That’s okay. I left a massive pile of returns for you to shelve as payment.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost five…