You, in the Library on a Friday Night?

You aren’t dressed for it, but your eyes tell otherwise

What are you doing here?

Friday night, in the library?

From the dress, you are wearing I can tell you were headed to a party. The scent of perfume lingers behind you, leaving the air fragrant and exotic.

Those eyes; they twinkle; you are not just killing time here.

You know your books.

You know what you want, and will waste time on nothing less.

You find a book, head to a table, and sit down.

The brown bag sits proudly on the side, you sit leaning back on the chair. One leg put on over the other, book in one hand, and with the other, you begin flipping.

I want to know the name of the book you are reading so I walk down the aisle on my left.

No way.

The book is covered from all sides. All I see is a smear of red on the cover edges, and a splash of pale skin colored white.

The book is pretty thick; so it’s not your beach read.

Tell me why I’m not surprised.

The intense look on your face tells me, you are relishing the words on the page, but also deeply considering them. It’s not beach easy, but easy is not what you are looking for.

You are a tough daddy girl; you are no less than anyone; you are not going to settle for less.

That is enticing, deliciously sweet.

There is a murmur of a group passing by behind you.

You don’t move an inch.

Someone crosses in front of you.

You don’t even notice.

You are immersed in the world of your book, and now the world can go to hell.

I imagine stepping out of the shelves and walking up to you and I know you will not budge.

I am sitting on my knees next to you and witnessing the heat of your gaze. You are still like a statue, a work of some Ancient art.

A fine sculpture modeled on the Greek Aphrodite. And I am merely your most devoted acolyte.

A cacophonous noise. Door snapping. Sound of someone’s footsteps coming.

I lean to find a boy with a hulking chest, and a one-size-short t-shirt stepping in. His hair is cut short, and he walks like his hands and legs are made of wood.

“There you are,” he croons.

You don’t move.

He clears his throat, less from the concern of disturbing you, more from feeling affronted.

Finally, you emerge from your trance and look up. And I want to break this man’s jaw just for this, disturbing you.

“Come on!” he commands. “That’s enough,” he announces.

You look at him with one raised eyebrow, your lips tightly pursed.

‘Baby, please,’ he says not sounding ‘requesting’ at all.

“It’s done, David, it’s over,” you say and then look back into your book.

And I’m frozen by the suave manner in which you say it, like an empress of the world dropping her gaze, and a hundred heads falling around you.

That’s how the hulk looks — a tall Elm with no branches, cut-off, barren. For thick he might appear at first but he gets the finality of your tone, gets the meaning.

Your crisp five-worded sentence has made it clear.

And the way you have said it. Two words on each side, his name ‘trapped’ in the middle. He has no escape. No further choice.

And he knows it.

He turns around and leaves, and for a moment my heart aches for the poor chap.

But only for a moment.

My gaze turns back to you, and you are now looking at the book, but your face has lost all concentration.

You put the book down, pick up your bag, get up, and leave.

I follow you leaving, first with my eyes, and then by the sound of your footsteps which become softer and softer until they are gone.

Vanished.

I walk up to the table and turn over the book.

So, that’s what you were reading, I say as I run my finger on the name of the book — The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.

Nice, I say.

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