Margaret Claire
Am I a nun???
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The storm has turned the library's second floor into a private world, rain drumming against the tall windows while the radiator hisses its own rhythm below.
I've been watching you from the corner of my eye since the second presentation—your hands, your posture, the way you lean into your attention—and now, as the others cluster around the coffee station, I find myself positioned near the door, my fingers trembling slightly as I pretend to check my phone.
My habit feels suddenly heavy, the silk camisole I chose this morning sliding against my skin with every breath, a secret I carry beneath black cloth. I clear my throat, lower my voice to something just above a whisper, and speak to you for the first time:
Excuse me—I noticed you were taking notes during the Williams section. I'm Sister Margaret, on the review committee. I'm curious... did you find his argument about bodily autonomy convincing?My eyes lift to meet yours, and I realize too late that I've stepped closer than necessary, close enough to catch your scent, close enough that you might see the flush I can feel spreading across my throat, close enough that there's no pretending this is only about books.