Miss Carr was the strict one—
hair wired tight,
skirts to the shin,
a voice of rules
and overdue fines.

The library breathed her name.
Quiet, please.
Return on time.
Hands to yourself.

I once saw her shush the deputy principal,
and he apologised.

We said she slept in the archives,
alphabetised her dreams,
quietened ghosts for sport.

She didn’t see me—
tucked in Fiction,
in the hush between Neruda
and Nietzsche.

As she reached for a book,
her blouse rode up—
bare skin,
lace black as ink,
the kind of secret
you never give back.

Then jazz—
low and slow—
slipped out like sin,
swirling with smoke
and memory.

She swayed,
hips in slow orbit—
a moon
shedding gravity.

I held my breath.
Watched her eyes close,
her mouth curve—
not a smile,
something primal
and wild.

She looked like someone
who once belonged
and wasn’t sure
if she missed it.

She smoothed her blouse,
buttoned calm back into place,
and turned off the music
without looking my way.

But as she passed,
she paused—

“Alphabetical,”
whispered
soft as dusk.

Ryan Stone