Carol found herself in the library annex. A cigarette machine attracted her attention. She hadn’t seen a cigarette machine in ages. She hadn’t smoked since college, but she was curious. When she got closer to the machine, she discovered it wasn’t a cigarette machine at all; it was a book dispenser. And she saw a title she wanted. She inserted her quarter and pulled the handle, but the book didn’t drop. Now what? When she turned, she saw two men standing behind her. “Oh, are you here to help me work the machine?” she asked them. “No, ma’am,” they said, “We’re here to collect the book you owe.” Carol was puzzled. I don’t owe any books,” she said. “You do,” the men insisted, “Two weeks overdue.” “What book?” Carol wanted to know. “It’s called Chinese Length,” the men said. “I’ve never read a book called Chinese Length,” Carol claimed. A woman in the room said, “Oh, yes, you read that book. It has a song in it. You were singing that song.”

“I wasn’t” Carol insisted.

“Were too,” said the woman. “It went:

E E EIO,
E E EIO,
EI EI EIO,
O O, O O, O O O.”

Carol couldn’t help it. On the way home she sang:

E E EIO,
E E EIO,
EI EI EIO,
O O, O O, O O O.”

She sang it again and again. Something about it was relaxing. Something about it was also exciting.

That night, making love with her husband, the song came to her unbidden. As her climax approached, the song’s syllables insinuated themselves into her gasps. A moment later her orgasm was an avalanche of O’s.

Next morning, there was a text from the library. “The book you ordered, Chinese Length, is in. Please pick it up at your earliest convince.”

She read the message again to be sure of the typo. Then she deleted it.