My dear friend Zelda and I met in the underground corners of the library in February, she was dressed in a worn rose pink canvas shell and I in my most artistically charged flannel. In the energetic period of my life I gazed at her home amongst the stacks like it was carved ancient wood instead of beige metal. Embossed in gold type her spine read, Save Me the Waltz and we danced to the north corner of the basement where a like-minded soul had pushed a chair away from the aggravated typing of liberal arts academics.