Adeline
Books and Boardswas my brainchild—a Friday-night library event designed specifically foractualadults, as opposed to gracious extensions of the word such asyoungadults.
I’ve been working at the library for the last three years and before that, I’d volunteered ever since I could reliably shelve books according to the Dewey Decimal system. Thus, the older librarians have faith in me and my social idea.
And while I would have loved to have called our evening Books and Bordeaux, I’m not old enough to drink yet, and the library can’t serve alcohol. Rather than pairing a book club with wine, we pair it with board games. It works. It’s a safe place to hang out.
I pat myself on the back during my 7 to 9 PM event that’s held after the library closes. It’s the loudest the library ever gets, but not rowdy enough to have neighbors complaining. Tonight, I’m excited for different reasons, though.
I’d normally hang out in the parking lot afterward and talk to some of the other attendees, but tonight I have to hurry. I can’t be late. I have to catch the 9:17 train, and with a fifteen-minute brisk walk to the station, there’s no time to spare.
Two Fridays ago, in a fluke event, I hadn’t been feeling particularly well so I’d headed straight for the station. Eager to get home to my comfy flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks, I planned on curling up in bed as soon as possible.
That’s the night I spotted three businessmen at the other end of the train car I was in. They were mostly immersed in conversation and showing each other stuff on their phones.
If I hadn’t felt so ill, I might not have stayed at the far end by myself. It was just overactive allergies, but nobody likes a sniffly-nosed, coughing passenger next to them. And if I’d been more ill, I might have thought the three men were a fever dream. They had that rugged masculinity that gets my panties in a twist. The kind that I can have fantasies about. The kind that you only see on magazine covers and in movies and TV shows.
Except these guys exist in real life. And they ride my train.
After taking my allergy medicine, I purposefully rode the 9:17 the next few nights, feeling foolish that I’d gone into town for the sole sake of hoping to see them again. When they didn’t show, I told myself maybe they only rode on weekdays. But Monday, the same scenario. And if I’m being honest, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were all disappointing as well.
But last Friday, when I rushed fromBooks and Boards,there they were. I studied the three men, not from the far end of the train car, but from the midway point, which put us decidedly closer. In order to not look like a creeper, I opened my social media and pretended to scroll.
Looking up intermittently, I sometimes pretended to read the caution signs posted over their heads, other times I dared a glance and offered a friendly smile while darting my eyes away.
I wasn’t the only one chancing eye contact, though. I caught them looking at me multiple times, and I’d almost gotten off a stop early, I was so taken aback by the way it looked like they thought I belonged to them. But of course, we don’t know each other and people don’t belong to people.
My body’s reaction to their hungry gazes gave away how I really felt. I want to belong to them.
I desperately want to lose my virginity, andBooks and Boardsdoesn’t seem to be a good avenue for that. These older businessmen… they could be my ticket. Or at least one of them could.
Which is why I’m quickening my pace after touching up my makeup at the library. The clouds are threatening a torrential downpour and the frazzled wet-rat look isn’t any better on me than anyone else.
The wind whips up, tossing my hair in about fifteen different directions. Water splats on my glasses, making it nearly impossible to see.
I will my legs to move faster. As each drop of water comes quicker than the one before, I lose the race to arrive with any semblance of beauty. My curls are washed away by the rain. Mascara has undoubtedly merged with my blush.
The wind blasts me from another direction causing me to break out in goosebumps. I cross my arms as I hustle toward the station. Tonight won’t be the night I try to sit a little taller and meet their gaze without darting my eyes away.
Tonight I’ll sulk in a corner, pissed off that Mother Nature refused to have my back.
How did I forget to check the weather? I was so obsessed with these guys, who are probably in their immaculately tailored suits and fashionable shoes with their perfect hair—even the one who has the slightly curly, tousled bedhead look.
These are men who read weather reports.
I glide my fingers over the cold metal handrail as I hurry through the turnstile, and rather than standing at the location closer to where the men have entered the train the past two weeks, I stand at the far end. I’m alone.
My light-blue sundress has become see-through, highlighting my boring white bra. I didn’t figure sitting halfway closer to them on the train necessitated glorified undergarments. That was going to be my endeavor two weeks from now.
Yes, I have a plan. I figured I could move closer next week and then in some fantasy world, they would ask me on a date. Only after that would undergarments matter.
I check the time when the faint rumblings of the train catch my attention. The train will be on time, but the guys aren’t. It’s just as well.
Comfy flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks await me.
I take my seat and welcome the alert that the doors will be closing. There’s no one else in my car, probably because everyone took cover when the rain started.
A flash of movement catches my attention. It’s a group of men. Three men. My men. Running toward the train.
