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“Do you have a library card?” she asks.
“No, not yet. I just moved here. I—”
“I know who you are.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she doesn’t give me the chance.
“You married that Miller boy.”
He’s hardly a boy. “Joel, yes.”
She shakes her head. “Plenty of nice young women around here, and he had to go and pick up a Yankee,” she tells me with a scoff. “But then, that boy’s always been a little off. Not the brightest bulb in the box, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m from Tennessee, actually. And, no, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Didn’t figure you would,” she says. “Anyway, you'll need a library card.”
“Great. How—”
“But it's probably no matter anyhow,” she adds. “I don’t think we carry what you're looking for.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe you could order something.”
“Well, maybe you could order something,” she repeats in a singsong voice. A very mocking, singsong voice.
“I wouldn't hold your breath. All of our orders have been placed for this year.”
“It's only February.”
“All the same. I said what I said.”
Her reply gives me an idea. “Oh,” I say. “Maybe you're looking for help?”
She looks me over from one end to the other. “What? You meanyou?”
“Yes, me. I have experience—”
“We're not hiring. And even if we were, you'd be the last person I'd consider.”
