Nobody had bothered to put a bell on the counter, so Lilah Morgan just slammed her hand onto the tabletop and started drumming it with her sharp red fingernails. "Hello?" she called. "Hell-o-o-o?" No one else was in sight. Lilah glanced at the nameplate by the computer terminal, a habit well-ingrained in a woman who traded on information. WINIFRED BURKLE. Great, she had to deal with some ninety-year-old crone, who probably didn't even know how to work the database. This would take all night. "Who do I have to blow to get service around here?" she muttered.

A high, raspy voice traveled from the stockroom around the corner. "Can I help you?"

"No, I'm here at seven o'clock on a Friday night because I like to bang on the fucking counter."

A face followed the voice, moments later, and a girl emerged from the storage space. "What do you need?" She was slender, with long dark hair, and didn't look a day over twenty. She didn't go with that voice.

"Plat books," said Lilah flatly. "Really fucking old ones."

"Those would be in -"

Lilah leaned forward and put a hand to her ear. "I can't hear you. Why the hell are you whispering?"

The girl shifted into a normal tone to answer, a little peevishly. "Because this is a library." She took a fistful of her own hair in one hand, twisting it absently, and raised the other to push her glasses onto her nose. The glasses were too clunky, the hair too loose and wild to go with that pretty face, and to top it off, she had a frumpy light blue sweater across her shoulders, with flowers embroidered on the collar. What is she, somebody's dirty librarian fantasy? To which the answer came immediately, Yeah, like yours.. Under that stupid sweater, Lilah could see the contours of a long slim body that might bend like a sapling or snap like a twig. The fingers that touched her glasses showed short, unpainted nails, probably bitten down to the nub; fingers like that could slip easily into Lilah's cunt, as she pressed the tip of her breast between those delicate lips. Jesus, Morgan. but you need to get some ass.

"I can't really help you." The girl settled in behind the desk and it occurred to Lilah that she was Winifred Burkle. Well, I guess mommy and daddy wanted to make sure you stayed a virgin as long as they could. She wonder if it had worked so far. "This is the acquisitions office," said Winifred. "Try reference. They're open until five."

"It's seven," Lilah snapped.

"Oh." The girl's eyes widened. "Why am I still here?" She looked at the wall above the office door. "Oh, shoot, the clock's broken again." She shook her head, letting the hair stream over her shoulders. Hair that would brush lightly over Lilah's belly as she guided the girl's face down to rest between the junction of her thighs. Winifred smiled. "I guess time sure flies when you're re-indexing an entire inventory system. Actually." She gave Lilah an apologetic look. "We're supposed to be closed."

"Fuck," Lilah mumbled. Then. . .what the fuck? Like she really wanted to be diving through maps of Spanish land grants so she could write a brief that would disguise the firm's efforts to preserve the underground infestation rights of the Thauma'uuz clan? Lilah had always heard that first-year associates at a big firm like Wolfram & Hart spent most of their time in the library, but somehow she had taken this for a figure of speech. It just meant you didn't have much contact with clients, didn't spend much time in court. It hadn't occurred to her that "the library" meant the actual library. Lilah had nothing against books, of course. Book smarts had helped to get her where she was today. But she could afford her own books. Public libraries, as far as her limited experience could tell, were for kids, lunatics, and homeless people - which, incidentally, was what the places usually smelled like.

"Is it important?" Winifred asked. "Because I could probably give you a few minutes. Though if you're dealing with plat books, it's more likely to take hours." Her mouth scrunched in sympathy. "My boyfriend used to work at the planning commission, and he would complain about them all the time." Of course. Not a virgin. In spite of that sweater, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Burkle's hours of labor with Baby Names for Outcasts and Losers . Winifred had a boyfriend, a property lawyer with a fast car and a big dick, who gave her shoe money and only a couple times a month, dressed her up like a French maid or a Cub Scout and pushed her face down into the pillow so he didn't have to hear her scream when he fucked her in the ass.

She was still talking. "I mean, Jared still works there." The hand twirling in Winifred's hair moved faster, tightening it into a roll until the fingers stopped at her scalp. "He's just not my boyfriend anymore." She started untwirling the hair again. Methodical hands, the kind to keep working, pressing at once on the clit and the G-spot, ever patient. "I'm all right," she said, apparently under the mistaken impression that Lilah had expressed concern. With another apologetic smile, she added, "Sorry I can't get help with your books."

"It's fine," said Lilah. "I can come back tomorrow." And then, like she'd just thought of it, "If we're both headed out, maybe we could get a drink."

*

The girl, it turned out, was called Fred, as in Flintstone. Her parents always called her that, she explained on the short walk to the bar. No doubt it was part of their plan to make sure their little girl never had sex, ever. On the other side of the battle, there was tequila.

After three margaritas, tequila was clearly winning, although Fred didn't know it yet. "See!" she said, stabbing her finger toward Lilah's shoulder. "I do make connections with people. I am capable of interest in the outside world. It's that I don't need stupid Jared to tell me what I should be interested in. Like, you know, why is his charity golf tournament automatically a valid social activity and my X-Files role-playing club is not.?" Leaning close, she confided, "I play Samantha. It's complicated because she's missing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Lilah was, for once, telling the truth, and she was pretty much glad. She had finished a few glasses of Scotch while Fred went through the margaritas, and was a little drunk herself. That was okay; the secret was to stay at least one degree of intoxication behind the adversary. Or companion. Whatever you wanted to call it. She drained her drink, put an elbow on the bar and balanced her chin on her hand. "But you look cute when you do it."

"See!" Fred announced, flailing her arms. "This is why women are so much better to talk to than men. Jared would have tried to argue with me, but you're showing me some real personal respect. You know something else?" She leaned close and reached a finger out to touch Lilah where her breastbone met her neck. "I do not think that men actually like to have sex as much as they are -" Raising a hand to emphasize this word. "Widely reputed to believe."

"Really?" said Lilah. "Why is that?"

"Because." Fred nodded as she went on, in rhythm with the words, so that Lilah could tell she had rehearsed this speech, to herself, if not for anyone else. "They may like the SEX part of sex, but they don't understand the preliminary. No no -" Fred held up a finger as though Lilah were about to interrupt. "Intermediate steps that would be required for them to actually receive said sex. Like -" She counted out on her fingers. "Being nice and - not being an asshole and - not saying something so totally stupid that you just have to not have sex with them?"

"Of course," Lilah said solemnly, although she didn't believe it herself. She had rarely had trouble getting to bed with a man she wanted, and, if she didn't, she assumed she must not really have wanted it that much. Of course, men had problems of their own, namely when they decided (and they always had to be the ones who decided) that fucking had turned into relationship. And what relationship meant was that, eventually, you lay down next to him, and you thought he was asleep, and you started to go to sleep yourself, and then he nudged you and his lips were on your throat and he got on top of you, like it was his God-given right - no matter how many times and ways you'd done it, once you got in his bed and closed your eyes, it was his boyfriend- privilege to roll on top of you, while you were half-asleep, and you didn't stop it, because maybe it would be good but of course it was bad, but it didn't actually matter that it was bad, only that he didn't care it was bad, because he was only on top of you because he was horny, because there was an itch to scratch, and if you hadn't been there, he would have taken his cock in his hand, but because you were there - warm body - why not? And then he tried to sleep, with his arms around you, and you had to lie there with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling, because what if you fell asleep like that, you didn't know how you'd wake up, tied up by his arms, weighed down by his head and chest. You never knew if you'd be able to get out when you needed to.

That was the problem with men. The solution was easy enough. You didn't stay long enough for them to get any ideas.

There were other problems with men, of course. They liked to drink too much and play pool for money. And after that it didn't take much. The cue slipped, elbows jerked too hard. Somebody called somebody a name.

And then fists. Flesh on bone. Words in the air. "Shit! Fuck! Fight!" Bodies in the bar, surging to the door. One of them tripped, rattled Fred's barstool. She fell forward, tilted the margarita and it was all over Lilah's blouse. Fruit juice and tequila on winter white silk, and she was never getting that out.

"Holy fuck!" Lilah screamed.

"I'm so so sorry," Fred gushed. She scrambled forward, brought a cocktail napkin to the front of Lilah's shirt. Her hand jerked away quickly, and she said, "Sorry," again, like she wanted to believe that Lilah's nipples were hard from the ice.

"It's their fault," Lilah glared, thinking, This will be worth a blouse,, and she didn't even have to say it, Fred was already offering to go with her to the bathroom, help her clean up.

It was a private toilet, with a door that locked. "Was that a barfight?" Fred gasped, slipping in behind Lilah.

"I can't wear this out of here," Lilah half-turned to the mirror, and slowly began undoing the buttons on her blouse.

"Oh," Fred stammered and turned her back "My sweater?"

Fred shrugged the blue monstrosity off her shoulder and tried to hand it over her back to Lilah.

"Honey. . ." Lilah let the garment drop to the floor. Fred bent to retrieve it, then turned and gaped up at Lilah. "Don't take this wrong, honey," she said, pulling the ruined blouse from her own shoulders. "But I wouldn't be caught dead in that. Give me your shirt."

"My . . ." Fred gaped down at her own loose navy T-shirt. "Lilah I'm not sure it will fit, well. . . " Fred blushed as Lilah pulled the brassiere away from her chest, exposing her breasts to the cold fluorescent light.

"Lilah," Fred stammered, rocking back on her heels. "I think maybe you have the wrong idea."

"Do I?" Now she bent her knees, put a hand on Fred's shoulder and guided her upright. Fred gave up looking anywhere but Lilah's chest, as the other woman soothed in her ear. "My idea is that you're a straight girl, and you're standing in front of a woman who wants to fuck you, and suddenly. . ." Lilah pressed her lips to Fred's neck. "It doesn't seem like such a bad idea."

"Oh," Fred gasped. "Well, when you put it that way. . ."

*

Lilah went home in Fred Burkle's T-shirt. It strained a little, against her breasts, but that only recalled the pressure of the girl's hesitant lips, growing more eager as she gained confidence. Then Lilah thought of Fred's quick tongue running down her belly, ending below, where it could move inside and ease the dull longing of Lilah's tired body.

The next day, Lilah traded unpleasant duties with Lindsey McDonald, who probably wouldn't even notice the moldly homeless smell of the library. She wore the shirt again, once, in bed alone, tracing the motion of the girl's tongue with her hand. It was no good. She threw it out with the next day's garbage.

Much later, she found herself wishing she had kept it. If only as a point of reference.

END