This isn't a library, she felt the judgement plainly in the service clerk's eyes as she sat her coat and scarf on the oversized chair. In her lap was The Penguin Anthology of 20th Century American Poetry and she had 1 1/2 hours to kill. No, it wasn't a library, she agreed with his unspoken chastizement. Perhaps she should at least buy a coffee but that seemed redundant and unnecessary in light of all the iced tea she had just drank at lunch.
And who was she that she would be guilted into spending money she did not have?
So she sat down with her book she had no intentions of buying and proceeded with her plan to pass the afternoon. Her evening itinerary danced before her and twisted her stomach in a nervousness that was not unpleasant. It was like waiting for Christmas morning or anticipating the arrival of a loved one after a long trip. Silly, she told herself, opening the book for a much needed distraction.
She was meeting someone... a guy... this one guy at his down town loft at 5:30 and at this rate, it would take forever to arrive.... she'd thought maybe a store full of books would make the wait more bearable. She's thinking now that perhaps nothing really would.
She must have it bad.
The clerk became tired of giving her the evil eye. Just as well, she didn't want to drive all the way home to sit on her bed, try to be productive, and to wind up watching Dexter... she flipped to the first poem.
Concentrate. Time won't go faster looking at the clock every 5 minutes.
The words are strange, empty, not as exciting as they normally are. She flips to a different poem. Here we go. Ginsberg. Ai. Lucille Clifton. Old friends. A little girl walks by with her dad. A woman with a stack of magazines comes and sits in the chair beside her. It is comforting and peaceful and reminds her of being 19 again, passing sleepy Sundays at the book store by her first apartment in St Louis.
Before she knows it, it is 5:00 and time to go.
Barnes and Nobel, She sighs. Thank you. You've done it again.
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