And yet…there was an ache. A wanting. A sense that I was waiting for something I would never get.
I wanted a reason to feel awake again, because right now, it felt like I was sleepwalking through life, like I was merely existing instead of living. Oh, I functioned, and I smiled at all the right intervals, but something was missing.
Sighing, I rolled my shoulders back and settled into the final stretch of my shift.
I stepped toward the front desk, feeling the shift from focused calm to creeping exhaustion. I checked the clock above the exit.
Eight forty p.m. Twenty minutes left. Almost done.
Surely nothing catastrophic would happen.
Although, historically, the universe liked to intervene when you least expected it.
The wind battered the windows, and the long panes vibrated from the pressure. Thunder rolled across the river and hit the building with enough force to rattle a few loose tiles in the ceiling. The lights flickered in a pattern that suggested imminent betrayal.
“Love that for me,”I said to no one.
Libraries were temples of order, but unfortunately, storms did not respect that.
I grabbed the wet-floor sign and rolled it toward the entrance. The lobby had collected a layer of rainwater, and the last thing I needed was a lawsuit—or another intern telling me we needed protective gear.
As I put the sign in place, the front door opened, and a drenched college kid staggered inside. His hoodie dripped with enough water to qualify as a minor flood event.
Dazed, he looked around. “Do you have towels?”
I stared at him and thought,this is a library, not a gym,but realized just before saying it that it would probably be a rude comment to make to a patron. So, I refrained.
Growth.
I walked to the desk and took a stack of paper towels out from behind it. I was chronically unable to deny basic human needs.
He took the paper towels from me, then shuffled off, leaving a trail of water that stretched across the entryway. I stared at it for a long moment before grabbing more towels and crouching to mop it up.
My brain kept sliding between exhaustion and longing with no intention of stopping: I was tired. I wanted warmth. I wanted more.
I did not let myself definemore.
I thought of my apartment with its soft lighting and view of the river lights. The delicious smell of something Eloise had pulled from her oven. The steady comfort of returning to a place where someone was always glad to see me.
A tiny ache formed under my ribs, but I quickly tamped it down when I heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps behind me.
“Now what have I told you about doing my job?” Mr. Foster, our ancient custodial worker, asked. He carried a mop like it was an extension of his arm. His voice always had a tired warmth to it, the kind that made people listen without thinking.
I straightened a little. “The kid was dripping. I had to contain the situation.”
He huffed. “Contain the situation. You sound like the safety manual.” He started mopping and gave me a pointed look. “You run this whole place. Let an old man earn his paycheck.”
“I was already down here,” I said.
“You’re always already somewhere. I worry you’re going to file yourself away and forget to pull the index card back out.”
My mouth twitched.
Mr. Foster was one of the rare people who made me hesitate before assuming the worst. He was steady and predictable, and his kindness wasn’t a performance. He reminded me that some people were worth trusting and worth the effort of building something with them.
And he always managed to shine a light on the part of me I tried to ignore. “I’m fine.”
“You’re something. Fine is not the word I would use, but I know better than to argue with you before closing.” He handed me a dry towel. “Go finish whatever it is librarians do when the rest of the worldhas gone home.”
