Some rainy Tuesday, I will pull into the parking lot of the public library, my car shiny with the damp. The wheels will whoosh softly against the asphalt as I carefully guide the vehicle into a parking space.
I will walk across the parking lot, waiting patiently for the large van, filled with a frazzled mother and her delighted children, to pass me by. I'll tug the doors open, leaning back for leverage-- they will always be more heavy than they look.
The library proper will be quiet and cool, the stained glass of the cupola tame for now, but patiently waiting for a ray of sunlight to break through and set its colours ablaze. My damp shoes will squeak on the dry tile floor, and I'll walk carefully, embarrassed to be making such a noise in such a place. The grey-haired librarian will glance up at the sound, smile vaguely, and turn back to the shelves behind the desk. Her aged hands will begin to organize the books on the shelves behind her, the books that have already been requested and are waiting to be picked up. I will almost laugh, like I always do, at the little jar on the shelf that says "Ashes of Problem Customers" on the side.
I'll choose the stairs over the elevator-- I like the way I can look out the window at the park below as I ascend, the busy street just beyond that, traffic light patiently regulating the rain-drenched traffic. As I reach the carpeted second floor, my shoes will cease to make any noise, and any embarrassment I feel will be overcome with anticipation. I'll pace toward the shelves, trying to look casual, stopping to peer at the shelf full of Orson Scott Card novels or pretending to search for a new Sharon Shinn book.
And then... I'll spot it. Not a book by those distant people, but a book I know well. I'll pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It will still be shiny-new, a long crease down the binding promising that at least one person, one person had read it. My mouth will be dry as cotton, my heart pounding as I gaze at the back flap, studying the too-familiar face... the wide, long-lashed dark eyes; the full mouth; cheekbones that really don't make a fuss of themselves; one eyebrow that is slightly higher than the other; copper-blond strands, carefully arranged by someone other than the woman-girl in the photo.
And when the amazed young girl at the end of the aisle asks, in a tentative voice:
"Hey... aren't you...?"
I can say:
"Yes. Yes, I am."
I will walk across the parking lot, waiting patiently for the large van, filled with a frazzled mother and her delighted children, to pass me by. I'll tug the doors open, leaning back for leverage-- they will always be more heavy than they look.
The library proper will be quiet and cool, the stained glass of the cupola tame for now, but patiently waiting for a ray of sunlight to break through and set its colours ablaze. My damp shoes will squeak on the dry tile floor, and I'll walk carefully, embarrassed to be making such a noise in such a place. The grey-haired librarian will glance up at the sound, smile vaguely, and turn back to the shelves behind the desk. Her aged hands will begin to organize the books on the shelves behind her, the books that have already been requested and are waiting to be picked up. I will almost laugh, like I always do, at the little jar on the shelf that says "Ashes of Problem Customers" on the side.
I'll choose the stairs over the elevator-- I like the way I can look out the window at the park below as I ascend, the busy street just beyond that, traffic light patiently regulating the rain-drenched traffic. As I reach the carpeted second floor, my shoes will cease to make any noise, and any embarrassment I feel will be overcome with anticipation. I'll pace toward the shelves, trying to look casual, stopping to peer at the shelf full of Orson Scott Card novels or pretending to search for a new Sharon Shinn book.
And then... I'll spot it. Not a book by those distant people, but a book I know well. I'll pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It will still be shiny-new, a long crease down the binding promising that at least one person, one person had read it. My mouth will be dry as cotton, my heart pounding as I gaze at the back flap, studying the too-familiar face... the wide, long-lashed dark eyes; the full mouth; cheekbones that really don't make a fuss of themselves; one eyebrow that is slightly higher than the other; copper-blond strands, carefully arranged by someone other than the woman-girl in the photo.
And when the amazed young girl at the end of the aisle asks, in a tentative voice:
"Hey... aren't you...?"
I can say:
"Yes. Yes, I am."
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