“You smell like a bar," he said.I thought, You smell like a library. But I wanted to have sex right then, so I said, "You smell like a poem.”

“You smell like the floor of a bar.""Hey. I resent that. I have lots of fond memories of bar floors.”

“What does he smell like?” “Smell like?” I scrunched up my face. “You know, he looks like he’d smell good.”

“What is that?"..."Why do you smell like that?"..."Smell like what?""You smell delicious."..."You smell like food. Why do you smell like food?”

“It smelled like sex and dog in here. But mostly it smelled like sex.”

“About the library," he whispered. He took out the pencil stub from his pocket and poised it over the page."Will you write like Mr. Blake or like yourself?" I inquired.He wrote and whispered the words aloud as he did. "I am in the library. It smells like old stuff.""It smells familiar," I suggested. "It smells like words." Because his left side was to me, I couldn't easily take his hand to write."Books are boring," James said as he wrote."They line the walls like a thousand leather doorways to be opened into worlds unknown," I offered.He thought about this and then wrote with a smile, "I hate books.”