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?