I'm in the stacks, shelf-reading.
Out of nowhere, a guy speaks to me and makes me jump.
"Do you know the way out of here?", he's like, and I tell him.
"Thanks, sir," he's like.
When I go to leave a little while later, the heavy clicker for recording the number of mistakes, bounces from side to side on my chest as I walk, since it's hanging there from a cord.
I look at it, and it's almost like it's bouncing on this firm pad of fat right below where my ribs stop.
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