Sunday night, I got into my little car (no worse for the wear of sliding into a bank of snow) and drove back down the same roads that had almost killed me, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel as I watched the drop-off to the my right rolling down the mountain.
My grandmother watched me go and said nothing, though she waved with a smile from the front porch. I watched her grow smaller in my rear view mirror, gray hair set off by the magnificent sunset that wrapped all of us in a communal red blanket. I felt a little lost and small and alone, as I often did on Sunday nights, but the feeling was more intense, this time. Closer. She looked so small, so far away as I drove off into the encroaching dark.
Monday morning dawned cool and cloudless. I stood in front of my closet door in panties and a gray bra, and realized my hands would not stop shaking as I pulled on a plain black skirt and blue blouse and a blue sweater over that. I didn’t want to go into work, but it was Monday, and I was over my fever, and there wasn’t an excuse in the world I could think of not to go.
So I went into work.
“Hey, Sharon!” I called as I slammed my driver’s side door. My co-worker was struggling out of her Jeep, burdened by five cloth bags bulging with books.
“Hey, Megan!” she returned, shutting her door with her hip. She was grinning sheepishly as she tried to reconcile the weight of the books on her two slim shoulders. She laughed a little with a shrug. “I think I got carried away!”
“Just a bit,” I returned the smile in spite of myself and took two bags from her, shouldering them as we walked up the icy front steps to the library carefully.
As we entered through the wide, swinging doors, the comforting scent of old books washed over me in the warmth of the foyer. I deposited my coat on the coat rack and settled down behind the front desk in my swivel chair, glancing at the beeping phone that had three messages, apparently…
“Guess who,” hands slid over my eyes, and the scent of rich cologne masked the scent of the library.
“Good morning, Sally,” I sighed, and then I could see again, and my boss had stepped into that line of sight, grinning mischievously, her full lips rounding up at the corners as a stray lock of red hair fell in front of one of her bright green eyes.
Sally is the only boss I've ever had (I know, I’m one of those weird people who got a job pretty easily out of college), so what I assumed a boss should be was based entirely on her, and I’m pretty certain that most bosses didn’t flirt hopelessly with their employees. Right?
“Good morning,” she practically purred into my ear as she leaned on the counter. Her blouse was low-cut revealing some pretty nice assets that I always did my absolute best not to stare it. “You were late by exactly a minute, you know,” she murmured, one brow up.
“I'll make up for it on lunch break,” my mouth twitched into a half smile.
“Ah-hah, there it is! There’s my smile!” And, satisfied, Sally walked away to ask (in a much more subdued tone) if Sharon thought she had brought in enough books.
“Man, late night?” That was Rob. He was in charge of the children's department and ran it as if he was still a kid himself. Today, he wore a bright pink shirt and a tie with a rather frightening clown on it, his jet-black hair perfectly combed down the middle, just like the clown on his tie.
“What do you mean?” I asked, and, even to me, my words came out tired. Rough.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he added helpfully to his earlier assessment. He leaned closer to me, asked seriously: “It couldn’t possibly still be that blizzard, that was days ago. Was it the dreams again?”
I massaged my temple with a cold hand and nodded with a very long sigh. “Yep. Lucky me. I dreamed about wolves again.”
“Tell me,” said Rob, sitting down next to me in the other swivel chair, concern making his brow furrow, because that's what he always said and did.
So I answered him: “It was the usual big, bad wolf. She was running towards me, snarling, her muzzle covered in blood. You know, all the usual.”
Rob cocked his head. “Nothing different?”
I frowned. “No. It’s always the usual.”
He always tried to put my dreams together, like puzzles. He was just about to do this when Sally called out: “Okay, people--show time!” and unlocked the library doors.
It was a little hectic after that. I found peace from the screaming kids in the non-fiction section, re-shelving books, but I kept thinking of my dreams and the blizzard.
I wasn't ready for it, what happened then, how it happened so unexpectedly. But isn’t that how these things tend to go? You can never expect something like this...
Because this is the day I met Kara.
I noticed her first between the biography shelves, prowling down them in soft boots that made no noise against the linoleum. I noticed her because I felt someone’s gaze on me, and when I turned, I saw she was staring at me, eyes that seemed to see all the way into me. I looked up and she didn’t lessen her gaze, only intensified it, deep blue eyes sharp points that left me speechless, they were so powerful.
“I need a little help,” she said then, smile soft, hands spread as she gracefully moved to the desk. Her eyes were a sweet blue, like cornflowers. I opened my mouth and closed it.
“How…how can I help you?” I tried to ask, but I stuttered over the words, and then tried again, after I cleared my throat and blushed and the woman had screwed up her features in a curious expression.
I wished I was under the desk.
“Art books,” she said, then, her head to the side.
Okay. I could help with that. “They're all over here,” I said, standing, smoothing my skirt, allowing my inner librarian to take over. “Any title, author, specific art that you had in mind?”
“Nah,” she stuck her hands in pockets and fixed me with that startling gaze again. It was…a hungry look, I realized.
I showed her art technique books and art history books and she gave me a luke-warm shrug until I put a slim volume of da Vinci's sketches in her hand. Her eyes lit, and she flipped it open and thumbed through it carefully, like the binding would break if she turned the pages too quickly.
“Is this what you wanted?” I asked, unnecessarily. I was almost preening, she was so clearly delighted with it.
“Well. Almost,” her smile was warm, honey dripping off a spoon. “Do you have any more?”
Moments passed, and she walked up to the check-out desk with an armful of art books, all different periods, all different artists. She’d been so happy with each volume I'd given her, and it didn't seem to matter that we had an empty shelf in our tiny art section...because she was happy.
I sat down in my swivel chair and grabbed the rubber check-out stamp approvingly (other libraries have mostly computer check outs—but we’re so tiny, we still do everything the old fashioned way. Which I kind of prefer). She set down the books in front of me smoothly, and we locked eyes. That expression again, that dark hunger as she gazed deep into me. I knew I was blushing as I stared up at her.
There was something about her that captivated me utterly.
“Can I…can I see your library card?” I asked, not because I wanted to ask it, but because it slipped out of my lips. Default words came while my mind wandered to other places. I was on autopilot, pinned beneath her gaze.
“Library card?” she asked, surprised.
“Don’t you have one?”
“No,” she looked abashed, mouth open. “My goodness, Megan, I'm sorry.”
“How did you know my name?” I stammered.
“Your name tag,” she stared at my breast pointedly, grin chasing her features. “It's a beautiful name.”
I was blushing again as my heart began to beat insistently through me. “I'm afraid you have the upper hand.” I said then, because I had to say something. “I don't know your name.”
“Kara,” she said, the two syllables sounding rich and warm on her tongue, like she was saying a line of poetry. I r
ealized that I was leaning over the desk, as if my entire body was drawn to her. I swallowed, leaned back, glanced down at the stack of books.
“Well then, Kara—it’s no problem,” the name was rough in my ears, sounding not nearly so nice in my own mouth. “We can outfit you with one.”
“One...?”
“A library card.”
We stared at one another in frustrated silence for a moment. She had a strong jaw, delicate hands. I was distracted and flustered and I didn't understand why I was.
You find her attractive, a distant part of my mind practically sang. I silenced it, but still took in this incredibly beautiful woman. Kara. (It did sound like a poem.)
She was saying something, and I hadn’t heard her. Guilty, I tuned myself back as she repeated: “...ID, right?”
“I'm so sorry,” I muttered, licking my lips. They were suddenly dry. My mouth was a desert.
“Do I need an ID to get a library card?” she asked again, patiently.
“Yes?” My mind blanked as I watched her shift her weight, saw her hips move in the other direction. I stared at her, and I couldn't remember if you needed an ID or not. Did you?
“I don't have an ID,” her hands were in her pockets, now, not touching her glorious stack of art books. I felt her posture shift, her slight shoulders starting to curve toward the door.
No one, in all of my years of being a librarian, had ever responded to the library card question like this, and my mind was grappling, trying to catch up to this strange turn of events, already made…different by her very presence. She wore dirty jeans, and a black shirt...I could see the hint of finely formed black tattoos on her forearms, and a thin gold chain hung at her neck...her neck, which was long and curved up beneath the tousle of jet black hair, flecked with gray. She was probably thirty-something.
And I was so attracted to her, it was all I could think about.
“Just…just take the books, Kara,” I whispered, caught again in her gaze. It was gentle now, her eyes downcast, but still she pinned me in place with the beautiful blue of them. “Just...take them,” I told her again, pushing the stack of books toward her across the counter. I swallowed and gazed up into her eyes. “I trust you.”
More silence. And then:
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice low, husky. She gave me an easy smile so bright, so intense, I felt my heart skip a beat.
“Don't mention it,” I called after her.
But the door was already swinging.
She was gone.
---
I made spaghetti for dinner, straining the cooked noodles in a rush of steam that burned my fingertips as I held the pot. I cursed and turned the cold water on to follow after the boiling water. I didn't want to damage the drain.
I'd let her take at least fifteen books. Fifteen art books, expensive things that had been mostly donated to our little library. I didn't understand, couldn't understand, what had happened to my judgment...or why I'd allowed it to happen. So she’d had a pretty face, a pretty body—so what? I mixed the sauce in with the pasta with broad strokes of my metal spoon and did my best not to think about it.
And failed.
Dinner was bland, cheap and convenient. I put the bowl of spaghetti on the table next to the salad I'd mixed, and I realized I wasn't hungry. I wanted a bath.
I put plastic wrap over the top of the spaghetti bowl and set it in the fridge (waste not, want not, Gramma says), and made my way to the bathroom. I drew myself a deep, hot bath...the kind of burning hot that would probably cook a lobster. And then I sank into it, ignoring the scream from my skin.
Steam rose in see-through fingers as I stared at my bathroom ceiling and tried to think about happy things. The library had just gotten another grant. My car was fine. It was only four days until I saw Gramma again. I was frustrated, upset, and I didn't fully understand why. The accident had made me overemotional, I supposed, as I leaned back against the wall of the tub.
I closed my eyes, and all I could see was short black hair with a sprinkling of gray, full lips curved into a smile that came easily. Bright blue eyes, a sweet cornflower blue that pinned me down with a gaze of hunger. A name that sounded like a poem:
Kara.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling again. It was an ordinary ceiling, an apartment ceiling. It was tired and old and crumbling. But I saw it through a different gaze, just then.
Because I began to imagine something so surprising, so unusual for me, that instantly my face began to burn with a blush. Because I imagined a mouth on my own, and my fingers were caught up in short, black hair, and I was staring down at her while a warm body crawled on top of me, spreading my legs with gentle knees and hands as she glided her hips on top of mine, between my legs, pressing against my center, there…
It was a fantasy, a cold, cruel thing that would only last as long and far as my imagination could take it. It wasn’t real. But in that small moment of my own devising, it was enough.
Her fingers had been long, I remembered them as I'd handed her a big, thick book of Picasso. They were on my skin, now, pressing down against the small of my back, bringing my body up to meet her own. She was fierce in her want, and I loved that she wanted me with such hunger. Her tongue was in my mouth, her hips were on top of mine, and I felt defenseless and helpless and completely caught up in the moment as I wanted it maybe more than she did.
Here, now, I had only my own hands, my own fingers. And I tried. I closed my eyes and imagined my hands were Kara's, long and soft and pale, grazing flesh on their downward quest to touch me, repeatedly, her fingers languid and longing as they went into me gently, deeply, with a sweet, rich pleasure. But it wasn’t Kara touching me. It was only myself...these were my own hands.
I stopped, then, grasping the edges of the bathtub with a sort of resignation.
I stared up at the ceiling, my dull apartment ceiling, and I let loose a sigh that mingled with the steam, blowing the tendrils off course.
I’d probably never see her again.
---
“You look rough,” said Sally tactfully, waving a pile of bills under my nose. “What the heck? Bad night?”
“Yeah,” I croaked, taking the bills from her.
She stood for a long moment, surveying me with a raised eyebrow, and I squirmed, self-conscious. “I just have a migraine,” I said then, and t was only a half truth, but it appeased her enough for her to nod and pat my shoulder as she left me.
“Make sure you take a pain pill or something,” she shot over her shoulder.
“What's up?” asked Sharon, then, because to be left alone was apparently far too much to ask the universe for this morning. I looked at her with bleary eyes and realized I had no idea where to begin. What should I say? I’d been so attracted to a patron who didn’t have a library card that I let her take almost all of our art books?
Yeah, that probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.
“Nothing,” I answered, which wasn’t even a percentage of the truth.
“Well…” She looked unconvinced, but set a large stack of books in front of me anyway. “So, these were in the drop-off box...but I looked them up in the system, and they weren't checked out. Any ideas?”
I hadn't really heard all of it, or comprehended it, at least, for there on my desk were the fifteen art books I'd let a stranger take yesterday. All of them were in perfect condition, all of them back.
“Um,” I said, because I didn't know what to say. Sharon gave me a concerned look, then cleared her throat.
“Anyway, if you could maybe look into it--or, at the least, re-shelve them?”
“Yes,” I answered. And she left with a stack of fiction, heading off toward the children’s section.
Kara had stood right there, in front of my desk, behind the stack of fifteen books that she couldn't check out. But checked out anyway. I picked up the volume of Picasso, remembering how I'd placed it in her hands. I knew I was blushing, and I didn't care. She'd had long, pa
le fingers.
“Hello, Megan.” Somehow, impossibly, she was standing there again, as she'd been yesterday, hands in pockets, hair tousled, smile gracing features I wanted to memorize with hands and lips and tongue. I blinked a few times and stood up suddenly. This was not a fantasy. This was real. My head spun.
“Hello,” I replied with a blink. We glanced at one another for a long moment, the air crackling between us with an invisible spark. Or, at least, I felt it. I swallowed.
“I liked the books,” she murmured with a small, secret smile, as if she was uncertain of what to say. “I brought them back like I said I would.” She nodded to the pile. “I always keep my word. I'd...like some more, if that's all right with you.”
I hadn't even checked them to see if they were all right, but I believed her utterly. I nodded, still trying to find my voice. “But…but we don't have anymore art books...” I said, wishing with all my heart that we did. She looked disappointed, and it made me panic a little to have caused that expression. “Look...is there anything else you might like?”
She cocked her head, and then shook it, eyes dark as she gazed into my eyes, and then her gaze drifted up and down my body. My mouth fell open. Stuff like this never happened to me. “No,” she murmured softly, then, leaning on the counter as she stared deeply into my eyes. “Not in books, anyway.”
My heart thundered.
“Listen,” she leaned forward more, then, face close to mine. Close enough to kiss. She smelled of dark perfume, a kind of incense. “How many of these things do I have to read in order to get a date with you?”
I bit my lip and realized I'd stopped breathing. “...Pardon?”
“I would like a date with you,” she folded her arms, “and I was wondering what it would take to get one.”
What do you say to that? Nothing funny or smart or even partially clever came to mind. I smiled, dazed and found myself saying: “Nothing. It doesn’t take anything.”
Big, Bad Wolf Page 3