Why did I want to be a librarian, anyway?
The only man I see regularly is old Bookman.
Here he comes now, shuffling along with his terrapin pace, favoring the foot without the bunion.
I step smartly behind my desk, a defensive measure because of the smell. It's a smell only achieved by weeks of wearing layers of the same ragged clothes over an unwashed body. It can't be faked; it takes time to achieve.
He's mumbling under his breath as usual. Occasionally I can discern a few words. I thought I just heard, "Your mother wears army boots."
In fact, she does, but only for gardening.
He's mad at me because I always catch him stealing books. I guess he reads them with a flashlight under the bridge. It's unfair because I defend him constantly against complaining patrons.
As he moseys through the aisles, his arm flies out, snakelike, to grab a book, when he thinks I'm not looking. He has that will of the wisp action going as he disappears around a stack, but I'm too quick for him.
Right before he leaves, I demand the return of the books. He readily complies providing I know the correct number he has. If I get the number wrong, he turns sullen and I have to call a guard to collect his booty.
Today, I say, "Drop and give me ten books." He grins, revealing startling white teeth made more surprising by the contrast with the grime of his face.
Displaying amazing agility he drops, does ten one-armed pushups, handing me a book on each up cycle.
Bookman's starting to look good to me. Maybe I need to get out more--perhaps a part-time job as a barmaid?
After the last pushup, he sinks to ground and lies motionless. Scary. Heart attack? I have a snark, I mean, stark choice. Get close to Bookman or let an innocent human being die. I muddle it over.
Finally I lean down on him. His hard muscular body throbs under mine, and I feel something ... maybe that I really should give up romance novels.
Eventually I have to stop holding my breath and then--the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. Vice versa really, but who's counting? Maybe not a roar, but there is an excited murmur from the surrounding patrons. Besides greasepaint, I also catch a whiff of spirit gum and--aftershave?
What the heck is going on here?
Leaning closer I whisper in his ear. "Research for a book or a movie role?"
"Book," he gasps. I guess I'm heavier than I thought. Should I report him to Galleycat for possible poaching of Black Like Me, or other similar books? Or should I just lie here enjoying the feel of the hard, muscular, etc. etc.
I opt for the latter. Promenading poodles couldn't distract me now, because what I never thought would happen in the library finally did.
I got a man and he's not getting away.
Yanno(tm) Miss Snark has captured more than one love interest this way. Sadly it failed when employed re Mr. Clooney.
Scoring (so to speak) to come