She sits watching the crowd pass by, slowly sipping her favorite coffee, clearly lost in her own thoughts. There is nothing remarkable about her. In every way possible, she is ordinary. She is not young or old or thin or fat, but certainly underneath her drab gray dress lurks the outline of what is unmistakably the perfect silhouette of a woman. The only remarkable aspect is perhaps her eyes. These are a strange hue, neither blue nor green but some watery color in between.
He has been watching her for ten minutes or so, not for any particular reason, but because he is bored and he finds her interesting in a bookish sort of way. Finally she stands up and, with her empty coffee cup in hand, walks by him. For one brief instant, all that exists is the two of them, he and she, and as she passes, their eyes meet as if they are one. In that instant and inside this shared look grows a piercing new knowledge that wells inside him. She feels the same, a recognition of understanding, of meeting a similar being. Through this exchange a language is born. It is within these inner folds of humanity that the discussions begin and from this grows an ever present feeling, a hunger.
"I know you," he says, and for him it is more than a statement. It is a question. "Perhaps," she responds in a soft and nearly inaudible voice.
She drops a card on his table. It has an address and a time: 343 South Fifth Avenue, 5:45 pm. With this, she puts her cup in the dish bin and is gone. Had she planned this? What other explanation could there be? It is 5 pm on a warm, autumn Saturday afternoon and he has nothing better to do than to chase this bookworm rabbit down her hole.
He walks the few blocks to the address. An old facade of a brick building with large marble stairs and a large brass door greet him. Inside, the pale yellow light comes more from the windows than from the artificial overhead lights. He walks to the information desk. "What the hell," is racing in his mind. "What am I looking for? Why am I here?"
Before he can say anything, a young, impish girl with strange red-orange hair offers up, "She is expecting you. She's in the stacks downstairs. At the end of the long corridor, go through the door marked office."
It struck him that this is weird. Certainly, nothing like this has ever happened to him before, but clearly she was expecting him. Perhaps any man who enters the library fifteen minutes before it closes is directed to the office. Should he go down there? Would you? For one brief moment, he wonders who is the rabbit and who is the fox.
The Office
His curiosity gets the better of him and all he can think of is having sex with this librarian. Nervous and excited, he starts the march down the two flights of steps to the stacks. Here there are rows and rows of old books as if in some slumber-filled warehouse, dusty and unloved. Why has he become so hard at the smell of these relics? He's been in other library stacks plenty of times. Memories from his childhood of rifling through wonderful old law books come flooding back as he walks the long corridor to the far end of the building. The elf-girl was right -- this is quite a hike and likely there is no other living soul down in this dungeon area, now dark and quiet. At last, he sees a brown door with the word OFFICE stenciled on it. This door looks like it's right out of the fifties. As he knocks, he turns the handle and finds the door unlocked.
The room seems equally dark and lit by candlelight. This is no office. The room certainly resembles an office in dimensions, wood paneling and wood floors. It is warm but not necessarily inviting. There are two large unopened cabinets at the far end of the room and some rather unusual pieces of what he thinks may be furniture. She steps from the shadows. It's her alright, but not like he imagined. She is no mousy drab gray-dressed woman. She is just slightly less than his height with light wheat-colored hair now fully upbraided and scattered about her head and down her back in a rather wild way. She is wearing what is probably fetish wear, a dress of sorts with a tight leather bodice that at the waist opens up to a green, silky, lacy. transparent fabric. She is more than just beautiful; she is ethereal. Her large breasts heave in their confinement and her legs are stunning. He can't take his eyes away from their shape.
"So you like my legs," she says. Her voice, though still soft, now has a commanding tone.
"Um, yes," he stammers, immediately returning his eyes to her face, which makes her laugh slightly. He can't believe how stupid he sounds, but it's all he can think to say.
"Well, I like your ass," she says. "Turn around so I can have a better look. Do you get compliments like that from women?"
