In the main library, I leave little tokens between the pages of books - a strand of hair, an inky fingerprint.
Sometimes I subtitle:
Adulteress, Pornographer, Materialist.
I am sure it's useful to like minds.
I take the task seriously: I pressed a flower for Knightley and Emma, I left a cut of cloth for Chaucer and gave Harry Potter a birthday card.
I. Found. Something.
I left a book open at my table. When I returned, there it was on the open page: a clipping. The thick, yellow waning crescent of a fingernail.I looked around to catch a glimpse of the mystery giver but no one was near.
With my handkerchief, I wrapped up my treasure. I was desperate to be alone with it:
to rub it between thumb and forefinger. To taste it.
Today, I open my chosen book at chapter eight. I am patient. It lands. Its sticky little feet
pause on the words. The Venus flytrap snaps. I press hard on the book cover just to be sure.
Then, I open it once more.
I am satisfied. I have caught what I need.
Returning the gesture, I leave my gift on the table and watch from afar.