For the hundredth time in half as many minutes, he peered surreptitiously through the jagged two inches of musty space above the irregular crenelations of the poetry section. He knew that was where she’d find the necessary volumes to complete their assignment. He just had to wait.
In a moment of inattention, sightless eyes resting on the open book in his hands, the familiar flowery scent of her shampoo suddenly besieged his body in a sneak attack. He turned his back defensively and inhaled it in secret pleasure. The heavily armored accompanying dust occupying the ancient stacks crept in with the sweet gift, like Trojan soldiers hiding between the aromatic floral particles, stabbing their microscopic spears into his mucus membranes, and he sneezed.
He froze, breath held against discovery. O, speak again, bright angel!
Receding footsteps mocked his silent request.