Page 8 of The Librarians
The day before, she didn’t want to let sentiment cloud her judgment of the newer, larger version of the library. But after a decent night’s sleep, she still likes it a lot. The ceiling is the right height for the entire space to feel open and roomy, but not echoing or cavernous. The light is restfulandmood-lifting. Even the storage room, accessed through the breakroom and crammed full of donated books, would have been a booklover’s wonderland, if anyone other than the librarians ever saw the inside of it.
After a while, Jonathan comes to help her.
Though he’s careful never to stare at her, she feels his attention—she felt it the day before too. There is a Chinese saying,When someone is nice to you for no apparent reason, they want either sex or money. Whoever first quipped so had probably never met missionaries, but in general the rule holds.
Hazel, however, is a little puzzled by the nature of Jonathan’s interest: The pensive quality of his glances does not suggest either greed or attraction.
They empty out the boxes enough to push them under the library’s extended front porch as the first drops of rain splatter down. Jonathan ushers her to the breakroom. “Have something. You deserve it.”
The breakroom must have acquired its moniker of the Den of Calories because of its large open-back shelf, referred to as the Wall of International Snacks. The typical selection of Oreos and Ritz crackers is on display, as well as bags of Doritos and cans of Pringles. But also, Swedish candy fish, Mexican caramels, and Indian chakri mixes, among many other items that might be considered curious and unusual from an American perspective.
Astrid, when she was Hazel’s tour guide the day before, explained that Sophie is open to having fun snacks, but only allows those that are individually packaged to avoid roaches and other pests. Sophie’s policy must be working. The Den of Calories, all old fridge, older microwave oven, andmismatched furniture, is nevertheless as spotless as a Japanese lunch counter.
Thinking of Astrid makes Hazel recall how cheerful the young woman was yesterday morning. By the end of Hazel’s shift, however, Astrid appeared distracted—actively unhappy, one might even say.
Today Astrid’s shift doesn’t start until the afternoon—Hazel hopes she will be in a better mood by then. In the meanwhile, Hazel makes herself a cup of tea. Jonathan tears open a pack of roasted seaweed.
She estimates him to be a little older than her, maybe around thirty-seven or thirty-eight. She would not call him handsome, exactly, but he is blond and blue-eyed, has an appealing smile, and fills out hisI’m with the bannedT-shirt very nicely. The patrons certainly love him. They chat him up when they come into the library and find him to say goodbye when they leave.
He holds out the roasted seaweed toward her. “How’s working at the library for you?”
“So far I like it,” she says, taking a sheet of seaweed from the packet, “but it’s only my second day. How long have you been working as a librarian?”
“Almost eight years.”
“How do you like it?”
“I love it. But then again, my aunt was a public librarian for thirty years, so I didn’t come in with rose-colored glasses. Having realistic expectations helped.”
The roasted seaweed crunches rather loudly inside Hazel’s mouth. “So you also plan to be a public librarian for thirty years?”
“Longer if they’ll let me. But I’m lucky—my mom moved to a retirement community and I get to live in her old house. If I started out as a librarian today, I’m not sure I could afford a place in Austin.”
Hazel, very naturally, asks about the local real estate market.
It should have worked perfectly: He gives her a brief rundown, and she thanks him for the roasted seaweed, sails out of the Den of Calories, and avoids any potentially awkward subjects.
But she forgot to factor in her tea—or rather, the cup of water that’s been slowly spinning inside the breakroom’s medieval microwave. How quickly one becomes sloppy in one’s practice of minor Machiavellianism.
The former space-age marvel dings. She has no choice but to put in a tea bag to steep. Jonathan gathers seaweed bits from the table and drops them into the empty wrapper. “I know this might sound weird, Hazel,” he says. “We met only yesterday, but if I may, and if you are single and hetero, I’d love to introduce you to someone.”
In the silence, the tiny plastic tray inside the wrapper emits sharp, fricative sounds as his palm closes over it.
Hazel warms her hands with her mug. “Oh? What kind of someone?”
Jonathan seems relieved that she is willing to hear more. “He’s my high school buddy’s roommate. He’s hot. My friend thinks highly of him. And I think he’d be super into you.”
Now Hazel is amused as well. “Why is that?”
The packaging in Jonathan’s hand makes more crinkly sounds. His tone turns tentative, almost uncomfortable, as if he hasn’t prepared for the conversation to get this far. “Well, you’re a tall, beautiful woman, well-dressed, well-spoken, sophisticated—pretty much exactly what he’s searching for.”
News of my sophistication has been greatly exaggerated, Hazel wants to tell him. The primary culprit is her wardrobe, which consists largely of her mother’s cast-off designer pieces. Now, there’s a woman of cosmopolitan tastes.
“That’s a very flattering assessment,” she answers. “And thank you for bringing this interesting prospect to my attention. I am single and hetero, last I checked, but I lost my husband only a short time ago. I won’t be jumping into the dating—or even the fooling around—pool for a while.”
“Oh! My—I’m—” stammers Jonathan. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. And please allow me to apologize for throwing random dudes at you without first getting to know you better.”
Hazel shakes her head and discards the tea bag from her mug. The tea is fragrant and scalding, the way she likes it. “There is nothing to apologize for. I’m charmed by your offer. I’m sorry I can’t embrace it.”
