The pieces of paper set out by library computer carrels for writing Dewey numbers on

In front of a computer carrel I sit and sweat and grow steadily pinker. A boy (at what age will I start calling them 'men'?) asks me how last week was. I don't remember him. It dawns slowly that he may have been the boy I thought attractive at a concert I went to.

He doesn't seem too attractive now, and (not for the first time) I wonder what I was thinking.

The air conditioning recirculates dozens of different deodorants, perfumes & colognes evaporated off dozens of different skins, and they rise and meld, powdery and chemical. I wish I could come up with something better than the disappointment rising in me like damp, but you write what you know. I've come here to read about the crusades for a short story I'm writing. I'll take the books from the shelves and press them to my face. I'll breathe in paper and mildew until I forget I've ever smelled skin. I'll pile them high, rest my head, and forget.