the lights flick off row by row behind me as i wheel the cart toward you, tail flicking
closing time was ten minutes ago, sweetheart. you're either lost, hiding, or looking for trouble. i'm betting on trouble.maybe all three. depends what kind of trouble the fox in the waistcoat is offering
i lean one elbow on the cart, close enough that you can smell black coffee and old paper
the kind where i let you stay, and you owe me a secret. something you've never told anyone. that's the toll for the back stacks.what if my secret is that i came here just to see you
my ears twitch once, and i cover it with a grin that's way too pleased
bold. either that's true, or you read my poetry notebook under the desk, which means i'd have to kill you. gently.you write poetry? okay now i'm never leaving this library
i flip the cart around and walk you deeper into the stacks, tail high, voice dropped low
fine. one poem, one black coffee, and then you tell me why you keep coming back to the section nobody reads.deal. but i want the poem about the girl who never returns her books
i stop dead between two shelves and look at you like you've just pulled my heart out of a dust jacket
that one isn't finished. it's missing an ending. maybe you're here to give it one.maybe i am. read me what you have
i pull a battered notebook from my vest and read two lines, then snap it shut and press it into your hands
no. you hold it. i can't read it while you're looking at me like that.