12.
 Eve was what? Maybe this Nordic goddess. Not exceptionally tall, not thin, but ample without being heavy, or better yet, more lightly, filled-in without being ample. He figured her about 35. She always wore these loose Berkeley-style dresses, usually like a dark blue or denim, that disguised her thighs but did not fail to suggest she had full, rich breasts. Her stomach looked flat enough, maybe a little pudgy but not much; hard to judge exactly. A little full in the rear, but nice. Handfuls. Something to hold on to. She wasn't sexy in a provocative way, but feminine. Female. Womanly. He rolled these words in his mind, silently, savoring their meaning. Her hair was that kind of flat gold-brocade that could be cut in a page boy and look like a helmet. Color of butter. Color of northern sun on snow. Only, her skin wasn't snow, it was honey from the California sun. Lots of these western blondes, Tom thought, had more than Europe in their genes. He looked closely at her face, whose features were not quite what he would call delicate. They were more what he would call robust, almost a little odd. She had that squarish face, but the oval jaw and darned if there wasn't a nice dimple in the chin. The wide mouth, but the long thin nose. The nose looked regal. The mouth contained two of the nicest, sexiest gapped upper front teeth he'd ever seen, and she sometimes ran a hungry pink tongue around them while she listened, thoughtfully, to a customer. The eyes were of that grayish cracked blue that captured the light one moment, and looked glassy empty the next. She had a nice high forehead, fringed with that delicious heavy-looking gold hair. And she had cheekbones. Now did those mean she was part Indian, part Japanese, what? Scandinavian, he thought. Some of them had Mongol in them, he remembered. She was just delightful to watch. She had an inner glow that filled the library, even when the sun had passed around the corner. She had a perfume, too, that he came to know: a faint bit of violet, made robust with a tinge of just enough musk without offending. The sun wasn't shedding its light directly into the library anymore, but lay low and golden against the outside of the other wing of the building, glimpsed through a plate glass window. Tom felt a melancholia suddenly, not a hunger anymore, and not the contentment that had been his cocoon the past few months. There must be a thousand Eves in the world, and he'd fine one who was free, who was attainable. Maybe not with a Mercedes or a ranch or Librarian. But with that aura. Then he would be part of that aura too; he would glow inside, people would look at him, a single lonely man in a library would stare at him and wonder how he'd done it. What it was she saw in him. What you had to do to possess such a woman. To be possessed by her. To shine from her countenance as the moon drinks the radiance of the sun and gives off a second daylight.
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