Encounter at the Public Library

The woman sat at a table in the public library. Her knit beige cardigan was draped over the back of the chair. The sun, only recently reacquainting itself with Toronto after a long winter, shone through the window. The warmth had caused the woman to take off the lighter cardigan to reveal a striped pink button-up blouse. She opened a week-by-week calendar book, and laid it next to the classifieds. She began highlighting. After reading certain passages, she busily jotted notes in her book. Whenever someone made a noise she’d look in their direction and stare. Clearly annoyed she would stand and move to another spot, leaving her cardigan draped over the chair. She’d need a place to go back to in case someone made a noise at her new table.

I wondered why she chose the public library if she wanted a quiet spot. The city is huge, surely there are better options for her. Home, maybe? She might live with a daughter who begrudgingly allows her to live there, rent-free. The daughter first accepted her mother hoping she would help take care of her two young children. She soon learned her mother needed more care than the children. Understandably the daughter loses her temper quickly. Not because she lacks love, but because her patience and understanding is spent entirely at work, leaving only a tiny reservoir to draw from at home. Really, I wondered, the public library was the quietest place she could go?

I looked out the large window at the people walking outside. Their pace was less hurried now that the sun was out. It wasn’t exactly warmer yet, but the sun had a slowing quality as people remembered what it feels like to be part of an earth. It is hard to find quiet in a big city, I acknowledged. The woman was now eating a rice and veggie medley from a thermos. It was 5:30pm. I felt sadness. No one should eat dinner alone in the library if they could chose otherwise. The food looked limp and cold, but I liked the brightness of the yellow curry. Her fingernails were painted with a clear polish. Maybe one of her granddaughters painted them for her. Her hair was dyed auburn, one-inch silver roots spread from her part. Her glasses had no lens but showcased brilliant golden frames.

The first time I met this woman was in February. I remember it was a cold evening, because I didn’t take off my black down jacket. My phone had vibrated deep in my pocket. I picked it up and whispered, “hello?” It was my friend. I'd walked over to the bookshelves to talk. The various tables scattered across the ground floor of the library were constantly buzzing with conversation. Overhearing those conversations is how I learned about the standard of deviation, the psychology of anorexia and the basics of Farsi syntax. After several minutes on the phone the woman came up to me. She didn’t say anything, but had just stood across from me, maybe one foot away.

“Hold on,” I'd said to my friend, “Yes?” I asked the woman.

“Quiet” she commanded.

 “I’ll call you back later ok?” I hung up. The woman’s back already faced me as she made her way to one of her many seats. I was annoyed she targeted me when many others around her were speaking too. She hadn’t told any of them to stop. 

I felt bitterness as I thought back to that cold February night. She continued eating her rice medley. I looked again at the sun out the window and breathed deep. Time had moved on and so should I.

After that I only looked up occasionally. She was fumbling with a ladybug pendant that hung from her neck, the wings spread revealing a clock face beneath. Finally she got up to leave. Shortly after her I packed up to go. I noticed she had forgotten her notebook, the one she is always busily writing in. I looked at the first line, “The flaxen-haired girl sat at a table in the public library. Her jacket looked like midnight, and she typed like thunder.” And so it went on. That’s sweet, I thought, she wants to be a writer. I gathered up the remainder of my empty Tupperware from dinner and made my way outside to catch the last few rays before the sun set.