suits. Today’s selection was dark-blue in color—almost the same dark-blue as her eyes—but it was as closely bound as all the others. Her spun-gold hair was closely bound, too, wound up in a terse knot at the back of her head. Huge, tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, giving the mayor the appearance of someone trying to hide from something. Like the world, for instance.
Honestly, Miriam thought, lifting a hand to her own dishwater—drat it—ponytail. Isabel Trent was an even blander-looking person than Miriam was herself. And that was saying something.
“It’s about all those copies of Metropolitan magazine scattered about in Periodicals,” the mayor said.
Miriam nodded. “Those are checked out and read very frequently. I apologize if there’s a mess. I’ll have someone tidy them right away.”
Ms. Trent straightened to her full—and very militant—five feet four inches. “No, you’ll have someone get rid of them right away.”
Miriam’s dishwater-blond eyebrows—drat them—shot up beneath her dishwater-blond—drat them, too—bangs. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“I said you’ll get rid of them,” the mayor echoed. “Completely. Cancel the library’s subscription.”
“But…but why?” Miriam asked. “As I said, Metropolitan is one of the library’s most popular periodicals.”
“Yes, well, it’s also one of the library’s most unacceptable periodicals.”
“Unacceptable? In what way?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed some of those headlines that appear on the cover of the magazine,” the mayor stated in a cool, clipped tone.
“Well, no, I haven’t,” Miriam said honestly. “I don’t read Metropolitan myself.” She braved a halfhearted smile. “I’m not much of a Metro Girl, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I should hope not,” Ms. Trent said. “That magazine is about nothing but sex, sex, sex.”
Which went a long way toward explaining why Miriam never read it, she thought, and why she wasn’t much of a Metro Girl. Sex, sex, sex wasn’t exactly a big part of her life, life, life. Or any part of her life, for that matter. Not her real life, anyway. As for her fantasy life, well…
There were those occasional daydreams in which she indulged, daydreams about herself and Professor Rory Monahan, even though his preference for the reference section of the library far outweighed his interest in the librarian herself. In fact, the reference section of the library also played a significant role in Miriam’s daydreams, come to think of it. More significantly, the tables in the reference section played into her daydreams. Because it was on one of those tables in the reference section that she and Professor Monahan were invariably engaged in—
Oh, dear. She was doing it again. Or, rather, fantasizing it again. Doing it, after all, didn’t actually show up on her agenda anywhere—more was the pity. Why schedule something that wasn’t going to happen?
“And on top of all that…” she heard Ms. Trent say, clearly concluding what had been a long diatribe against the mass media that Miriam had thankfully missed because she’d been too busy daydreaming about—oh, never mind. “…those women who appear on the cover of Metropolitan are, quite simply—” Instead of voicing a word to illustrate her feelings, the mayor made quite the sour face. “Suffice it to say,” she then continued, “that Metropolitan is completely inappropriate reading material for our library. As are these other magazines that I want you to remove from the periodical section.”
The mayor strode forward, pausing within arm’s length of Miriam, and extended a hand-written list, which Miriam accepted in silence—mainly because she was so surprised by the gesture that she didn’t know what to say. She was even more surprised when she glanced down at the list to find that some of the other journals and magazines that Ms. Trent deemed inappropriate for the library patrons were, like Metropolitan, wildly popular with the library patrons.
Evidently mistaking Miriam’s stunned silence for complete agreement, the mayor hurried on to her next point. “There are some novels in the browsing section that I’d like to see removed, as well,” she said. “Love’s Burning Ecstasy, for instance…” Her voice trailed off, but its tone held enough chilly disapproval to generate a new Ice Age.
“But Love’s Burning Ecstasy…” Miriam began.
“Don’t tell me it’s popular with the library patrons,” Ms. Trent said, clearly incredulous.
“Well, no,” Miriam conceded reluctantly. Not with the library patrons, necessarily, she added silently to herself. But Miriam had enjoyed it immensely. Several times, in fact.
“I want it gone,” Ms. Trent concluded simply. “Along with these others.”
She extended another list toward Miriam, who took it automatically, still having no idea what to say with regard to this blatant attack of censorship.
“And I want to make a more thorough inspection of the British literature section, too,” the mayor continued. “It was purely by chance that I stumbled upon this.” She held up a slender, bound tome as if it were exhibit A and continued, “I’m shocked to find something entitled The Rape of the Lock in our facility. I don’t think it’s at all appropriate. Do you, Miriam?”
For a moment all Miriam was able to manage in response to the mayor’s question was a series of quick, incoherent—and none too polite—expulsions of air. But she quickly recovered enough to say, “The Rape of the Lock is a virtuoso piece of writing, Ms. Trent, arguably Alexander Pope’s crowning achievement.”
The mayor gaped at her. “A man named Pope wrote that piece of trash?” she gasped. “I can hardly believe it.”
This time Miriam was the one to gape. “Piece of trash?” she sputtered. “It’s one of the poet’s most luminous performances!”
She took a giant step forward to snatch the book from the mayor’s hand and to read her a few verses, because clearly Ms. Trent had not taken the time to do that herself. Otherwise she would have realized the work was a social satire of completely inoffensive—and quite riotous—humor. Unfortunately, Miriam never achieved her goal, because she had barely completed her giant step when Ms. Trent’s face went white, and the book slipped right out of her fingers.
“Good heavens, Miriam,” the mayor cried in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”
Miriam squeezed her eyes shut tight when she remembered what had been displayed on her computer screen when Isabel Trent entered her office. Unable to quite help herself, however—the mayor was such a…such a…such a prude—Miriam pretended not to be affected by the scene herself. Feigning bland indifference to the subject matter of hotwetbods.com, she glanced swiftly, once, over her shoulder, then back at Ms. Trent.
“Actually, seeing as how there are considerably more than one displayed there, I believe the correct phrasing of your question should be, ‘What are those?’ And really I’m rather surprised you have to ask, Ms. Trent. But if you must know, the correct term for them is peni—”
“Shhhh!” the mayor shushed her before Miriam could fully pronounce the word. “Don’t say it.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t mock me, either, Miriam. You haven’t been working for
