The Footnotes Are Flirting

How it begins

On page forty-six, beneath the accessible toilet symbol, Nadia had written that Elias Ren possessed the hands of a man who could be trusted with a difficult jar.

The comment had gone to print.

She discovered this when the museum director asked whether it was an approved accessibility term.

Nadia took the guide from him. Twelve thousand copies. Good paper. Excellent contrast. Her private editorial remarks sat beneath the illustrations in a cheerful typeface selected to welcome families.

Across the foyer, Elias was helping a visitor fold a pushchair. His sleeves were rolled back. Nadia considered blaming the typesetter, the software, or a mild and extremely localized earthquake.

Then she turned the page.

Beside her note about a poorly placed bench, Elias had replied: She notices where people need to rest before they know it themselves.

The director cleared his throat.

“Are all the annotations like this?”

“No,” Nadia said. “Some are about fire exits.”

Elias looked up as she crossed the foyer. He saw the guide in her hand and stopped smiling. For three months they had argued over every page. He wanted elegance. She wanted someone tired, anxious or carrying a child to find the lift without solving a puzzle.

She had not known he was listening so carefully.

He opened his copy. The pushchair's owner watched them with polite interest.

“Page forty-six,” Nadia said.

He read it. His ears changed color.

“I can explain.”

“Which part?”

“The bench.”

“Excellent. I'll explain the jars.”

Behind the reception desk, a volunteer began opening the first distribution box.

Nadia and Elias reached it together. Their hands met on the cardboard lid.

For a moment neither moved.

Then Nadia took out her pencil.

“We need a plan.”

Elias found a blank page at the back of the guide.

“For once,” he said, “shall we write where everyone can see?”