“Now the bad news. The Justice Department has eased restrictions on domestic spying, giving the FBI greater authority to monitor libraries and other organizations. An especially cheery item to note is that ‘the new guidelines give FBI agents more freedom to investigate terrorism even when they are not pursuing a particular case.’ Tip for library users: if you need a book about bomb making, terrorism or anarchy, steal, do not borrow; you don’t want to that kind of stuff on your ‘library record’. A good discussion about this development is under way at Web4Lib. If you are not a subscriber, you can read the archive. Look for the ‘FBI to monitor libraries’ thread.”

Actually written by the appropriately named Rogue Librarian.

I.

She: “If you had just gotten a place and come and whisked me away, then I wouldn’t have left you.”

He: “If you hadn’t spent all your time telling me you didn’t want me around, then maybe I would have.”

II.

He: “If you’d only had more faith in me, then maybe I would have worked harder.”

She: “If you’d come and taken me away, then I would have had more faith in you.”

It was a whisper like something small clawing with dull nubbed digits along the folds of my ears: “there’s nothing you can do.”

And a dense weight on my chest. I can feel the whispered breath smothering me. “It’s no use. There’s nothing you can do.”

…and I’m reminded how long it’s been since I went shopping. Not buying things. How grotesque. Changing filthed dollars for items. For property. For things. Buying things is a complex cost-benefit calculus transaction between you, your needs, desires, dreams, and paycheck, and I’ve never been good at math. But, gawd, how I miss shopping. The leisurely stroll through American shopping malls, floating through the weekend crowds, salacious jetsam on the steady stream of consumerism. Looking at everything. How piped in sunlight ripples off of courduroy, gives the mannequin’s head the inner glow of love, or dreams, something far away from there. But I don’t miss seeing these things. I like to close my eyes, run my hands across the armies of fashion standing ready in the Mall’s endless garrisons of boutiques, chains, and brothels. Victoria’s Secret is a favorite. All the satin. Lace playing a game of hide and seek beneath your tentative fingers. The warmth of velour. The tease of soft cottons, like a garment of tiny kisses. I haven’t been shopping in so long.

It is deceitful to tell a woman you love her while she comes, and foolish while you do so.