Riffle

The librarian shuffles by as I read, checking on his precious books. I scarcely notice him anymore—he is fiercely protective of his collection. I only come here for the noises, which is a strange thing to do in a library. But the books whisper their stories, sensually tantalizing me with their perfume as I finger through the pages. I don’t mind the librarian. I’m too engulfed in my hushed, gentle lovers.