The tube stops and I get out.
Curving, the stairs lift me to the street.
Tile gives way to brick as hot thick air clears.
I readjust the bag over my shoulder, and step forward.
Counting the numbers,
One, two, three,
Eighty three, eighty four.
I can smell the books through the picture windows,
The meaty pages garnished with delicious black ink.
I open the door and take another deep breath.
From the counter, Frank looks up.
“Olivia, you’re late.”