I don’t think I’m imagining it. She keeps looking over at me today, I’m sure of it.
I’ve been writing in the library for three weeks now, a half-hearted attempt to save both my money and my heart from the effect of the endless espressos that accompany trying to work in the local cafe. It’s quite charming as libraries go, housed in an old Victorian building with lots of side rooms and lamp-lit nooks. I’m missing my coffee hit but it’s certainly a charismatic sort of place, and right from day one I’ve caught one of the librarians watching me out of the corner of her perfectly made up eye.
I’ll tell you something else I’m not imagining, either. She wears stockings to work. I haven’t been letching, but sometimes when she clears the books from the table I’m working at or comes close by to file away a pile of returned books, I can see the outline of the catches pressing beneath her skirt.
That’s not normal, is it? I mean, it is in my fantasies, but most women don’t wear stockings on a day-to-day basis in reality, do they? The fact that she does tells me stuff about her. It tells me that she’s confident, and that she embraces her own sexuality. That’s not a sexist thing to say, is it? I don’t mean it to be. It’s a compliment. I love that she’s not apologetic about the fact she’s f******* beautiful, that she chooses to wear clothes that celebrate rather than shroud her body. Make no mistake about it, this girl is packing some serious pin-up curves; she looks like she belongs in the nineteen fifties drinking cocktails with Marilyn Monroe rather than stacking sci-fi books alphabetically, as she appears to be tasked with this afternoon.
Buy now to read on and discover what happens between Huey and Sylvie the sexy librarian…