leopard moon

She was about three sizes in the wrong direction to pull off the low-rider leopard skin pants. The elastic fabric clung to her closer than the fur of the actual animal, leaving nothing to a dark, abused imagination. When she sat at a computer terminal, a cluster of rusting old men in street weary clothes stood nearby to salaciously stare at the pitted, lunar monument peaking out from the back of her slacks.

This was a library. She'd come to find something, though the question begged --what? She bit her lower lip, brushed a stringy strand of asphalt colored hair away from her eyes and stared at the computer monitor. Indifferently, she scratched the twenty year-old scar exposed by the gap between her teenishly fashionable pants and summer, mid-drift baring shirt. The men watched her every move, perhaps expecting that at any moment, she might grab one of them and mount them on top of the new arrivals shelf. They could hope. It was about all they could do. All of the other computer terminals were taken. Everybody was busy making friends on myspace.

She located the book, smiled, then peeled and heaved her swollen animal skin up from the wooden chair, causing a stir among the few, would-be suitors. If she noticed them, she did nothing more than nod in their general direction then walk on. She tracked her quarry then collected it by its spine. It was an old romance novel with a dirty, sun-faded dust jacket and yellowed pages.

What do you know? She was looking for love --just not the kind found on the floor stacks.