Stack 4B

Tuesday, second floor, the aisle nobody uses because the books are indexes. I had the small vibe in, the remote in my cardigan pocket, a novel I was genuinely in the middle of.

A graduate student, about thirty, came down the aisle looking for a call number. I turned the vibe up and didn't look at him until my breath shortened. Then I looked. He stopped. I held the eye contact and turned it higher and came, silent, one hand tight on the shelf, the other keeping the book steady. My face went hot. I didn't moan. I turned a page I hadn't read.

He didn't leave. He watched me do it again. The second one was meaner. My thighs shook and the chair clicked once. I shook my head, tiny, meaning don't speak. He nodded. When I could see straight I mouthed later and wrote a time on a slip I use for damaged books. He took it like I'd handed him something rare.

I went back to the paragraph. I had to read it four times. The cats will hear about none of this. The library heard nothing, which is the only review I want.