Sometimes in the stacks I still feel her hands.
I'm a librarian at a small town public library. When I first started working there, I was just a page, shelving books in the book stacks.
Modern libraries are large and open, lots of light and space for programs and reading. Ours was old with high windows letting in small shafts of light that fell away in the shadows of the stacks.
Her name was Gwen and she came in a few times a week for story time. As her daughter listened to Red Riding Hood or Three Goats Gruff, she would find me in the stacks. We kissed and touched and held in gentle moans as the wheels on the bus went round and round.
I guess I was some form of release for her. Different than her husband, her life as a mom, her sickness. When her husband began bringing their daughter to story time, I knew Gwen was gone.
Sometimes, though, I still feel her hands on me when I'm alone in the stacks.