A Night of Hard Reading
He didn’t seem to care that I was working. Truth be told, I didn’t care that I was working. The library was silent. An excellent time to catch up on putting away the days' books, and for mysterious visitors that come in from the rain. But it was not shelter from the rain he was in search of.
We spoke only a small smattering of words to one another before he pressed me into the stacks. He handled me as if I were the thickest tome on the shelf; the pages about to burst out from the books' bindings.
It was night for words. When his hand stole between my covers and down along my pages, I knew it was a night for poetry. My poetry was filled with hastened and pleading stanzas that wanted more than casual recitation.
And as he pressed me against the shelves of my work he offered me novelization.
With the doors of the library locked, he made good on his promise of a night of hard reading.