Love in the Library

I was that small tow-headed boy who sat by himself on the school bus, eyes wide behind thick glasses and nose buried in a book. So to me, a library job sounded perfect. My junior year of college I applied for a position and found myself working evenings seven to midnight, Monday through Thursday, with weekends off. Because I was the new guy on the shift, I got assigned to returns.

In theory, it sounded simple enough -- each book had its place on the shelves and none of the patrons could be expected to put anything back where it belonged. All books that came into the library were sorted and stacked onto carts, spine up and sorted by floor. Once a cart was full, I dragged it to the elevator and began the arduous task of putting the books back in their proper places. With five stories of stacks, one cart could take most of the night to empty, and any books left lying around the study carrels were to be re-shelved, too. As I pushed along my first cart of heavy hardcover books, I told myself returns weren't all that bad. Some people just hated busy work.

But my cart had a bad wheel that jiggled as I steered it towards the elevators. The noise filled the quiet library, making me cringe with each step. At the elevators, I bullied the cart inside an empty lift and hit the button for the fifth floor.

Nothing happened.

I hit the close button but the doors refused to obey. I hit the fifth floor button again -- nothing. "God," I muttered, leaning on the button. My reflection in the mirrored interior muttered in response -- pale eyes blinked at me from behind wire-frame glasses almost obscured by straight blonde bangs. "Close," I encouraged. Thin lips moved on my reflection, a ghostly mimic. Close.

Disgusted, I let go of the button. As if by magic, the doors slid shut. "Thank you." With a jerk, the elevator began its long, slow haul up while my stomach stayed behind.