Page 5 of The Cyrano Situation
I continued, weaving in references to books I'd seen on Cyril's office shelves, hinting at his analytical nature and dry wit without being too specific. I mentioned a preference for meaningful conversation over small talk, quiet cafés over noisy bars, and quality over quantity in all things—relationships included.
For the "looking for" section, I wrote: "Someone who understands that romance isn't always grand gestures and dramatic declarations. Sometimes it's finding someone who notices which book you're reading and asks the right questions about it. Someone who respects boundaries but isn't afraid to occasionally suggest crossing one or two. Intelligence is non-negotiable; kindness even more so."
I read over the profile three times, tweaking words here and there until it felt right. Not exactly Cyril—I didn't know him well enough for that—but a version of him that would attract the kind of person who might appreciate the real thing.
Before I could overthink it, I hit "Create Profile."
Almost immediately, a wave of guilt washed over me. What was I doing? Creating a fake dating profile was definitely crossing more than one line. If Cyril found out, he'd probably never speak to me again. And with good reason.
But then I thought about him in his office, meticulously marking manuscripts, eating the same sandwich every day, going home to an apartment where he counted his steps andprobably had his books arranged in some system that made sense only to him. I found myself wondering what it would be like to see that space, to understand the careful order he created around himself. I thought about how his eyes had lit up, just for a second, when I'd suggested helping him find someone—how that tiny shift in his expression had made something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.
Everyone deserves connection. Even rigid, routine-loving editors with elbow patches. Even Cyril, whose predictable habits I'd somehow come to find more charming than I realize I did.
I closed the laptop, promising myself I'd check the profile later. If nothing came of it in a week, I'd delete it and no one would be the wiser. If something interesting happened... well, I'd cross that line when I came to it.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of publicity plans and press release drafts. At five-thirty, I packed up my things and headed out, stopping by Cyril's office on my way. The door was open, and he was still at his desk, red pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Heading out?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up, momentarily startled, then composed himself. "In a bit. I want to finish these notes first."
"Don't stay too late. Even books need to sleep sometimes."
A slight quirk of his lips—not quite a smile, but close. "I don't think that's physiologically possible for books."
"Metaphorically, then." I adjusted my messenger bag on my shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry if I came on too strong yesterday. About the dating thing."
Cyril set down his pen, which I took as a good sign. "It's fine. You meant well."
"I did. I do." I hesitated, then added, "The offer still stands, you know. If you ever change your mind."
"I won't," he said, but there was less conviction than before.
"Sure, sure." I pushed off from the doorframe. "Well, goodnight, Cyril. Enjoy your... what are you reading these days?"
"Higashino. 'The Devotion of Suspect X.'"
"Any good?"
A genuine spark of interest lit his eyes. "Brilliant, actually. It's a howdunit rather than a whodunit. The reader knows the killer from the beginning, but the puzzle is how they'll evade detection."
I made a mental note to add that to the profile later. "Sounds intriguing. Maybe I'll borrow it when you're done."
"You don't strike me as a mystery reader," Cyril said, studying me with those analytical eyes.
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Nolan." I grinned and gave him a small salute. "See you tomorrow."
As I walked to the subway, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. Guilt, probably. Or maybe indigestion from the pastrami sandwich. Definitely not anything to do with the anything to do with the way Cyril's eyes had lit up talking about his book, the tiny crinkles forming at their corners, or how he'd somehow seen right through me and noticed what kind of reader I might be.
Definitely, absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.
At home, I heated up some leftover Thai food and opened my laptop again. The dating profile had three messages already. I skimmed them quickly—two were clearly copy-pasted intros, but the third...
"Your profile caught my attention immediately," it read. "Not many people list Higashino as a favorite author, and your thoughts on unreliable narrators made me think of Ishiguro's 'A Pale View of Hills,' which I recently revisited. I'm curious: what do you think makes a truly great ending to a novel? The satisfying conclusion of all plot threads, or something more ambiguous that lingers in the mind?"
The username was Jules28. The profile picture showed a bookshelf similar to the one I'd chosen, but with a small jade plant visible in the corner. The bio described a 34-year-old literature professor specializing in contemporary fiction, with interests in chess, classical music, and "conversations that don't involve the weather."
I clicked through to the full profile and read it carefully. Intelligent, thoughtful, clearly well-read. A bit reserved, perhaps, but in a way that might complement Cyril's own reserve. There was a dry wit to some of the responses that reminded me, oddly, of Cyril himself.
