Quiet

He sat every day in the library
reading foreign newspapers,
some in French, some in Russian,
and I watched his eyes, liquid brown,
as they swept back and forth
over the spread open pages.
I thought of how his slim fingers
might feel tracing along my skin,
how I might slide my own over
and down his chest and belly,
even nearing his stirring center,
circling him in bold invitation
to follow me deep into the stacks
of philology or some obscure subject
where we wouldn't be disturbed
and how all those old, thick volumes
might muffle the energetic sounds
of our sudden and vigorous coupling.
Sometimes I would have to ask Gwen
to watch the reference desk for me
so I could visit the women's lounge
and put my thoughts fully to rest,
biting my lips so as to not cry out.