I’m in a used bookstore perusing the classics. The smell of the dusty old books makes me smile, and I finger the spines as I walk up each aisle. The door jingles and another customer walks in, a man about my age in a tweed jacket and jeans, a man I’ve seen before in the building where I work. I meet his eye as the door closes, then turn the corner for the next aisle, trying to conceal my immediate attraction.

Tweed Jacket appears at the far end of my aisle. I slow my pace, feigning interest in a Vonnegut book I already have. He approaches slowly, looking at the books on either side, and to me it looks like he’s also faking his interest. I look at him and smile, moving out of the way as he passes. Instead of moving past me in the open space, he slides against me slowly, his front against my back, and squeezes my rear end gently with his warm hand.

I gasp softly and turn to look at him as he passes, a sly grin spreading over my face. He stops immediately next to me, looking at the books. He glances at me briefly, then looks back at the books. He says softly, so only I can hear, “did you enjoy that as much as I did?”
My heart pounds in my throat. I murmur, “oh yes.” I’m sure he can hear my thumping pulse.
“Good,” he says, “then in five minutes, meet me in the parking lot.”
He stands there a moment longer, selects a single slim volume and checks out.
Fumbling to return the books in my hand to the shelf, I weigh my options.

I leave the Vonnegut on the shelf and head for the parking lot.