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The Librarian and Her Poet

a/n: I do not own any of the works by Shakespeare, Poe, or Virgil that I have quoted. They belong to whomever own those rights. I make no money off this story in any way, shape or form.

He was there. Every day. Emily had gotten used to seeing him sitting there, four tables back, two chairs in, near the red sofa. There were shelves directly behind him, full of romance novels. He always sat facing her, from just about four in the afternoon until the library closed at six. His reading materials varied. Tolstoy, Ibsen, Hugo, Stoker, Rand, Whitman. He read anything and everything. Today, it was a volume of poetry by Emerson. A smaller volume of Keats was lying on the table next to him, looking lonely.

And Emily could feel herself every day pulled towards him. He was like the male version of a porcelain doll. His hair was long, shiny, and black as night. He always had it pulled back in some way, so as not to hide his face. And it would be a shame if he did, because his eyes were cerulean blue, framed by long, dark lashes. His skin was very fair, and his other features were just as fine. He wore glasses when he read, small silver frames that fit his face perfectly. She could feel those eyes on her, watching her from the table. It was like he was calling to her, using no words and no actions. Just thoughts. Impure thoughts. And when he had his graceful hands wrapped around a book, she could see ...

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