Madeleine tucked the sparkly pink Maybelline lip gloss into the front pocket of her black skirt.  This afternoon they’d be receiving their weekly book drop off and Madeleine hurried from her room down to the library.  She was wearing mascara, which would be easily detectable on her blonde lashes, so she kept her head down lest she draw attention from someone passing her on the stairs or in the main hallway.  But she made it down to the library without detection and after drawing the blinds and cracking the windows, she set about readying things–and herself–for Adam’s arrival.
.        She thought it somewhat ironic, yet comfortingly serendipitous, that he would share a name with the man who had participated in the downfall of Eden.  If one were to belive the story of creation, and secretly Madeleine was quite sure she didn’t, Adam’s trust in Eve had brought pain and shame into the world.  Would Adam Drechsler bring the same to hers?
.        And would I even care if he did?
.        She couldn’t remember or even recognize the precise moment when things had gotten away from her.  She’d always found Adam attractive in a forbidden, nasty kind of way.  Nasty because his appeal wasn’t something a woman noticed with her eyes.  Forbidden for all the obvious reasons.  Still she remained under the impression that her looking forward to Thursdays was strictly about the books.  She’d always had a passion for them, even as a girl.  While her sisters tore open Christmas and birthday presents in hopes of finding designer handbags or glittery hair accessories, pajamas with matching fuzzy slippers, Madeleine wished for books.  Classics, biographies, historical accounts, recent best-sellers.  The reason her heartbeat accelerated when the van pulled into the parking lot, she continuously reminded herself, had nothing to do with the man driving it.  The shortness of breath, the mirth that seemed to spread throughout her entire body, the flush in her cheeks:  all reactions to her love of books.  As to her recent practice of applying mascara and lip gloss; well, some things were easier to explain away than others.
.        She chose not to dwell on it as she went into the kitchen and mixed a pitcher of Tang, filling it with ice cubes.  She opened up a package of Philadelphia cream cheese and used it to make a variety of hors d’oeuvres.  She smeared it into the wells of celery stalks, rolled it up in slices of Lebanon bologna, smoothed it in between slices of sourdough toast and cut it into fours.  She arranged all the food on a large square serving dish and carried it into the library, setting it in the center of the table.  Next came the pitcher of Tang, along with two glasses, plates and napkins.
.        She sat in one of the chairs, went through the ritual of practicing her poise, smiling with warmth and charm without an invitation, making mental notes of where she would steer the conversation when it inevitably drifted from books to more personal matters.  It wasn’t long before she heard the motor of the van, the squealing of brakes and the cease of the hum of the engine.  Her hand flew to her chest, trying in vain to calm her fluttering heart.  She quickly ran into the powder room adjacent to the library and applied the lip gloss.  She heard the doorbell in the main hall, then Adam’s cheerful voice echoing off the walls in the grand, empty space as someone let him in.  Back in the library, she held her back to the door, using the feather duster on the shelves, sweeping away imaginary dirt.  She heard his footsteps coming closer, and her pounding heart matched every one of them, beat for beat.  She closed her eyes, knowing he was crossing the threshold.
.        “Sister Madeleine,” he greeted, and she turned to face him, her hand moving involuntarily to touch her shoulder-length blonde hair.  She’d stopped donning her habit in his presence right around the time she’d made mascara and lip gloss components of her appearance.  She could be wearing a bikini and it wouldn’t change her vows.  Still, it sent a jab of regret through her when he addressed her properly.
.        He placed a stack of three corrugated boxes on the second of the room’s two tables.  It was a modest library, large enough to accommodate about twenty students, with the four walls lined with heavy oak bookshelves.  While they didn’t reach the ceiling, they were considerably taller than Madeleine; she had to use a stepladder to reach the top shelf.  Along with the bathroom, another room was attached, where students could play various board games or construct art projects.  There was a supply closet stocked with papers and paints and easels, and other various items to encourage the process of creativity.
.        “Good afternoon, Adam,” she returned, loving the way his name slipped off her tongue.  “What have you got for us today?”
.        Today’s Classics Book Distributors conducted a donation circuit that included St. Agnes Catholic Elementary School and every Thursday Adam came to the convent library to present the parish with that week’s selections.  They were allowed to pick ten books, and sometimes Adam held aside newer or in-demand titles to ensure Madeleine got top choice.
.        She took a seat at the table where she’d placed the food and encouraged him to help himself.  He looked over the plate like a child permitted to select a favorite cookie, and plucked off a celery stalk.
.        “It’s like having social tea when I come here,” he said with a smile.  “No need to take lunch breaks on Thursdays.”
.        But he did take a lunch break, and it was spent with Madeleine, discussing latest novels they’d read or were currently reading, examining the books he’d brought just for her, ones he’d personally selected as stories he thought she may enjoy.  She always took those books.  In their Thursdays together he had come to know her well, in her literary taste as well as specific requests she made.  This week he’d included a copy of George Orwell’s 1984, a book they’d discussed last month, one she’d described as one of her many all-time favorites.
.        “I just love the tortured love between Winston and Julia.  The burning need to be with someone who, for whatever reason, has been forbidden to you.”
.        She wasn’t sure if he’d picked up on the hidden meaning in her words, but then he said, “But the constraints of their love were beyond their control.  That’s the worse situation to be in.  When you have no say in who you love, or even love at all.”
.        “I don’t know about that,” she said softly.  “Sometimes when the prison is of your own making it can be maddening.  That if not for your own foolish choices, choices you made long ago when your opinions were still forming, you could be living out your life with total happiness instead of bitterness.  Yearning.  Regret.”
.        After he had gone, she followed another ritual, the ritual of clearing away their time spent together.  With the same methodology she used preparing for his visit, she disassembled the table spread, wrapping the food in containers, washing the dishes.  She alphabetized the recently acquired books, attaching call numbers to their spines and filing them accordingly, leaving out the title Adam had selected exclusively for her.  She dusted the table, then wiped it with disinfectant, the measured control she exerted over her task taking her mind from Adam and their time together.  The most dangerous time for her was right after he left, cloaking her in a vulnerability that was crippling.  If she lingered too long on it, she would end up crying, moping about for the rest of the night and well into morning.
.        She found that taking a bath relieved some of the agony, the tightness at her core.  She brought in candles, oils, the selected book.  She climbed into the empty tub, lay on her back and slid down until her bottom was atop the drain.  She spread her legs and turned on the water, finding a warm, soothing temperature.  She used her fingers to spread apart her lower lips, letting the downpour pound a sweet, then torturous, then blissful rhythm against her clitoris.  She kept her eyes closed, thinking of Adam, thinking of every drop of water as a precise, purposeful flick of his tongue.  She came, panting, breathless, squeezing her legs closed as it subsided.
.        The tears soon followed, as they always did each time she indulged this fantasy, this fantasy that was the only way she could have him, the only way it could ever be.