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.