There ought to be a reason why the good city folks look straight up ahead, and never down. The deplorable constancy in chunks of fake human hair that stick to the sole of your shoes like unwanted ghosts, streams of warm piss, monthly uteruses on cloth like unwanted children, greasy tar, tarry grease, is better unseen than not. The more taboo, the more mundane. But I digress.
A box is irresistibly sexual on central campus, a big gray one. For come the dewy morning, as a sleepy boxy librarian’s assistant’s assistant unlocks the contents of the book return box, snaked amid the many books, a colorful collection of brassiere as bookmarks, in every size. He wishes he could be a book in the box. He envisions a happier life. One where he swims amid the mighty many bosoms of the women who found the box. That of the security personnel that scours through hours of footage in a discrete, fantastic voyeur dream. He shuts the box, stuffs his pockets with the biggest size D he can find, and rushes back into the library. He runs to the security office, where the security officer’s assistant’s assistant waits with last night’s footage, a throbbing fear of a lost job, looming. But that can wait. He sneaks his roommate into the office, into his teenage dream. He would pay him later with stuffed lingerie.
Dim, and grainy, two women stand by the box and hold up a placard to the video camera – “Dear Librarian. Thank you for standing up for our movement.”
Behind them, a wheelbarrow full of bras.
In sexy disappointment, the librarian’s assistant’s assistant keeps his souvenir and refuses to pay. He will but keep his imaginations.