Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Librarian . . .

thought it was awfully warm for January 17th as she went on break - she spun out the front doors of the library after being in there since 7:30 in the morning. She crossed Margaret Lane softly and quietly in her shoes with the two inch thick foam wedge soles and her tweed skirt with the silky lining and her grass green cardigan buttoned up to her pale throat and her red hair piled absent mindedly on that bony skull of hers and a car went past her slowly and the woman inside, a bookkeeper dressed in nothing that would say she was a bookkeeper, thought to herself as she changed the radio station that woman must be the Librarian, because who else looks like that? And the Librarian had no idea that she really looked like a woman who had sat behind the desk in the Library for all those years, sweetly, and silently whispering to patrons directions to find the books. When she first worked there, she was careful not to dress like a Librarian, but somehow, the books and the desk and the patrons demanded she dress in such a way, that it was a dead giveaway, and she knew it, when she passed the big window of the Mexican restaurant across the street, that she looked nothing like the lawyers that came from the courthouse across Churton Street, with their pencil skirts and their practical pants, and their strappy high heels, and their big Fly sunglasses, no, it was unmistakable, they were lawyers who spoke with television reporters about guilty pleas, and she was the Librarian who read stories to the children who's mother's brought them for Story Time . . .

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