Leroy at the Library

The library has always felt like a sanctuary, a place where stories breathed life into my world. That afternoon, the soft hum of activity created a soothing backdrop as I curled up in one of the oversized armchairs near the fiction section. Sitting side-saddle, my short skirt flirted with the line of propriety, leaving my legs bare and inviting unintended attention from passersby. It wasn't intentional—I had become so deeply absorbed in Kekla Magoon's *The Secret Library* that I hardly noticed the occasional sidelong glance from curious patrons.

But then, he appeared.

A well-dressed, clean-cut young man, his skin a warm, deep shade of brown, paused in front of me. His eyes widened slightly, the surprise evident on his face. "Wow," he said, a lilt of genuine excitement in his voice. "You're reading Kekla Magoon?"

I looked up, blinking out of the world of my book and into his. He seemed taken aback, maybe by my youth or by the incongruity of a white girl engrossed in a novel written by a Black author. But his initial surprise quickly melted into a smile—warm, genuine, and somehow comforting. I sat up straighter, pulling the skirt modestly over my knees, though I could still feel the slight blush creeping up my neck.

"Yes, I am," I replied, my voice a little breathless. His interest in literature sparked something in me, an eager excitement that overshadowed any embarrassment about how I might look.

He shifted slightly, leaning against the back of a nearby chair. "It's one of my favorites," he said. "Kekla Magoon really knows how to create layers in a story, doesn't she?"

I nodded, and suddenly we were lost in conversation. Leroy—that's what he introduced himself as—spoke with an easy eloquence about Magoon's work, drawing me in with his insights. His passion for literature was infectious, and I found myself laughing, gesturing, and marveling at how natural it felt to talk to him. It was as if the library had woven a spell around us, connecting two strangers through the magic of words.

Eventually, our conversation came to a natural pause, and Leroy glanced at his watch. "I should get going," he said, his smile tinged with reluctance. "It was really nice talking to you, though."

I returned his smile, a hint of wistfulness blooming in my chest. "Same here. Thanks for not making it weird," I said, feeling grateful for his respect and the unexpected connection we'd shared.

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound. "Anytime, Heather." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the faint scent of cologne and the lingering warmth of our conversation in the air.

I watched him go, my heart still fluttering from the exchange. As I settled back into my chair, I found myself thinking, "Not Leroy, you won't be my boyfriend. Maybe in a few years, when I've caught up." The thought made me giggle, the sound light and free. There was something beautifully innocent about it all, a moment I knew I would treasure—a brief connection made even more special by the understanding that, for now, it was enough.