Late afternoon, the orangey light off the bay gives the reading room a sleepy, sultry glow. Most times Professor Twassel has this corner space to himself, and he can compose his fictions without being disturbed. It is a smallish room, only two tables, and because of some function earlier that afternoon in another part of the library, there had been no chairs. Twassel has had to round one up. Heavy thing, but very comfortable. Sometimes Twassel’s eyes close, in contemplation, in dream, in sleep.

A young woman wanders in. She seems a bit too old to be a student, a bit too young to be faculty. Maybe staff. Maybe lost. She is wearing a short pink dress with a floral pattern, flats, and she carries a book, not paperback, which she places upon the other table. She bends over the table and begins reading. Twassel can’t help but notice that her short skirt rides up a bit, almost exposing her bottom, but not quite enough to show the color of her underwear. Or if she is wearing underwear. She turns a page.

Twassel wonders what it is she is reading. Some historical romance, no doubt. Ladies in waiting. Knights in armor. The Queen betrayed. The King undone. She turns a page. A fast reader, unless she is just skimming. Maybe a book about butterflies. Butterflies fluttering above a pretty garden filled with warm sunshine.

Twassel wonders why he would think that. The flowers on her dress? A butterfly landing. The young woman’s butterfly-like labia, dewy, unfolding. Her feet are bare. She’s kicked off her flats. Twassel can’t quite picture her naked, but he is able to substitute a nearly sheer nightgown for the floral dress.

What if he went to her and offered his chair? “I can easily get another,” he might say. “You’re too kind,” she might say. “Kind sir,” she might add. “With your stalwart erection. Your stiff silvery phallus ready to penetrate my thoroughly moistened quim. To cocoon itself in the warm clasp and snug clutch of my aching-to-be-fucked cunt.” Or she might, viewing the shameless, shameful bulge of his irrepressible, high-school-boyish boner, say, “Fuck off, Mister.”

Twassel blinks and the girl closes the book. Such a soft hush, like the final sigh of her long and luscious and fully satisfying orgasm. She steps into her flats and strides past the professor, glancing at him. Briefly. Knowingly? Disdainfully? Could it be she winked?

She’s left the book behind. Does that mean she is coming back? Maybe she is just off to the restroom. To pee? To masturbate?

Some minutes later, she hasn’t returned. Maybe, Twassel thinks, she’s left the book behind by accident. By design? Maybe her name and phone number can be found inside the cover.

Something to think about.