I Love You

At work, I can hardly stop smiling to myself. I dreamily shuffle books around as I remember the weekend: cooking dinner together, slow-dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin, having three orgasms. It all seemed so easy. I had forgotten what it was like to be like that with someone - to laugh and fool around - without arguments, pained silences and simmering resentments. I think about The Library Officer placing a hand on my breast and saying, "I love you." Then he placed his hand on my other breast. "And I love you too," he said.

He has told me he loves me during sex and before ending a telephone conversation. He says it all the time to his daughters. He easily expresses his feelings yet this also removes the power from the sentiment, making it seem so casual. I've never said "I love you" without really meaning it and I wonder now whether there was a point to hoarding those words like a fancy teacup that you never use.

They're just words.

Holding Hands

The Library Officer has lived most of his life in a small market town and walking around it together feels like being accompanied by a minor celebrity: he seems to know everyone. People call out his name and he stops and chats. I plucked up the courage to say that I wanted to stop holding hands as we walked around town, that it felt too much of a public display of affection. I said it because I'm conscious of of how we look together: an older man with a much younger woman.

We were in a pub and The Library Officer was stroking my leg and a woman walked past our table and gave us such a disgusted look that it really shocked me. I'd never been so openly judged by someone before and mentioned it to The Library Officer. He bent his head closer to mine as his fingers touched the back of my knee.

"When we leave I'm going to tell her that I'm taking you home for a good shagging."
"And I'll say "Okay, Dad."

We laughed and held hands under the table.

The Tea Situation

The library orderlies make me cups of tea and it feels a bit weird, like having serfs doing stuff for me. They have a tea-making rota and lock away all the tea bags and cups so no one can steal them. In the library they can make tea when they want and drink from 'proper' cups so it is viewed as one of the perks of the job. My manager advised me to bring in my own cup, preferably one that no one would want to steal. I bought a cheap one from a local charity shop, covered in flowers and butterflies, it's pretty hideous and I'm quite embarrassed to be seen drinking from it. No one has tried to steal it though.

I asked my colleague, John, if I should be offering to make tea for everyone - it's something I would normally offer to do - but I didn't want to step on anyone's toes. He said not to bother, that the orderlies consider it their job. It is definitely one of the perks of my job to be drinking tea in the library. At the last library I worked in, we had to hide our bottles of water under the counter because a manager or customer might complain about them, and we were definitely not allowed any hot drinks as we worked.

The prison library feels so civilised in comparison.

Writing In Birthday Cards

It is one of the library orderly's birthday and I am asked to write in his card. I always want to write something witty or personal but usually end up writing: "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a fab day!" Unthinkingly, this is what I write in his card and then spend a long time afterwards cursing my stupidity. He is in prison. How fab can his birthday be?

Hiding

The Library Officer and I are kissing in his office during our lunch break. I keep listening for colleagues returning from lunch. Thankfully, there are so many doors and gates to unlock in a prison that at least no one could ever take us by surprise. But I've never had a relationship with anyone I've worked with before and worry about our colleagues finding out. I suspect a couple of them are already suspicious: prison society is like a medieval village where everyone knows everyone else's business, and I think one of the officers may have seen me getting out of The Library Officer's car the other morning. I've not worked here for very long to have embarked upon a relationship with someone, and being civilian staff, I'm more noticeable. My big curly hair does not help me stay unrecognised.

"We're not doing anything wrong," he whispers, kissing my neck. "It's not like we're having sex." He raises an eyebrow, hopefully. "Oy!" I gently slap his face. When a key rattles in the door, we jump apart. He adjusts himself and I wipe his saliva from my mouth. I become super awkward around him and can't even look him in the eye or respond to him in a normal manner with our colleagues around. Trying to concentrate on my work, I'm conscious of his twinkly gaze following me as I walk around the library and my movements seem disjointed as I randomly pluck books off the shelf only to put them back a moment later. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I sneak a glance at him, he winks at me and I duck behind a shelf.

The Conversation

I have spent the last five nights at The Library Officer's house but need to go home and get my clothes ready for work, do some washing and let my parents know I'm still alive. Before I leave, while we're cuddling on the sofa, he says how much he's enjoyed the last few days. "I can't remember the last time I was with someone I liked so much. You're intelligent, beautiful and fun," he whispers into my ear. I stroke his face then kiss him. "I wish you were the mother of my children," he murmurs. I freeze, stunned by his words. "That's quite intense," I finally reply. "Especially as that's not something we will ever get to do." I can't believe we're having this conversation. I've known him for three weeks and we only went out for the first time less than a week ago. He can't have more children though, and I was surprised by how sad that made me feel when he told me. "If that's something you want to do one day then we will have to deal with it," he says. "I will be thirty-six in a couple of months time, " I point out. "I should be making that decision now before I get involved with someone I can't have children with." He looks sad and I get an idea of the serious issues surrounding a relationship with such a big age difference.

"You wanted a fling," Mrs B had texted me earlier. "Enjoy yourself!" I did want a fling, an ego-boosting  sexual relationship but it's obvious that he wants more and I realise I would have been disappointed if that's all he had wanted. But the sensible part of my brain thinks this is all we should have. Too more is too complicated.

Daughters

I am in the shower at The Library Officer's house when I hear voices from downstairs. I take my time getting dressed but can still hear him talking to someone and there is only so long that I can hide in the bedroom pretending to do my hair. Finally, I walk downstairs and am introduced to one of his daughters, Daughter Number 3. It's awkward but he seems oblivious. "You can both chat while I have a shower," he says. We don't chat: she sits at the kitchen table using his laptop and I sit in the living room, texting my friend, Mrs B. "At least he didn't make you hide," she writes, trying to console me. He reappears after a few minutes and I'm so glad he doesn't take showers for as long as I do.

I wonder what his daughter must be thinking. I haven't known him for long enough to know whether there has been an array of women through his house and bedroom. It's not the feeling I get from him. He seems so surprised and pleased by what has happened between us, as am I. But I feel so young compared to him, and even more sensitive to looking younger than I am. It's something I try talking to him about after Daughter Number 3 has left. "Did she mind me being here?" I ask. He looks unconcerned and shrugs. "I have my life as do they," he replies. That seems fair enough and I don't know what else to say. I've never dated anyone who had children, let alone four grown-up daughters. I try putting myself in their situation and find myself more judgemental than I had hoped to be.