THE MAN IN STUDY ROOM A

 

The library was small by todays standards, just one floor staffed by a group of long time employees including Emmy. Everything about the library showed it’s age even the AC which emitted a muffled low mechanical noise. White noise most thought, but in reality just aging equipment.


You could not help but think a librarian had a perfect job, seemingly apart from the harsh reality of trying to struggle against the myriad of forces effecting ones life on the outside. Here the movements of the day were measured. The gathering and restocking of books. There were technical names for this only librarians knew, CREW and MUSTIE. Acronyms for continuous review, evaluation and weeding of books. Always gauging if a book became too muskie or ugly to keep on the shelf.

 

Emmy didn’t admit it to herself, but working there for years colored your views on people and life. You started to classify them, especially the regulars. The elderly man who road his bike each day to the library and studied obscure court cases. The woman who almost ran all her business there. Emmy, now in her forties never married, endured the various family growing stories and new children of her co workers. Wondering quietly why it had never happened to her. Perhaps she spent too much time trying to fit everyone into the right slot on the shelves of life. 


There where three study rooms in the back of the library, the staff called them the quiet rooms. They were used by students, writers and business types. Seemed people would no sooner get one of the rooms than the computer would fire up reflecting an out worldly hue on their faces. Emmy often wondered if it was the patron or the machine making thought.


One person continued to intrigue her. A middle age man who always worked in Room A. He did not have a computer, only a backpack and books. He dressed neatly almost looking like a student but now much older. His kind eyes and pleasant face overcoming his baldness. She caught glances of him writing notes and what appeared to be sketches that he carefully kept in a notebook. 


She imagined his thoughts and passion flowing through him with his hand and pen almost one with the paper he wrote on. Emmy thought about how she lived alone and for so long. Emmy admitted she longed to be touched by another being. To have them write their life with her.


The man showed up each Tuesday, exchanging pleasantries as he took the room key from Emmy at the from desk. She shared a smile, getting back a small one. Hoping for more, she thought about asking his endeavors and what he was working on. Vowing to do so. Next Tuesday came around again, Emmy listened for the sound of the automatic entry door sliding. It’s crawl across the door slide always the same. She turned her head to look …




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