Bound
Every book has a heartbeat.
I caress the spine, cracked and aging, and pull the book
from the shelf. The musty scent irritates my nose. A part of the old cover
flakes off and flutters to the carpet.
Poor thing. Another victim of time, and barely a survivor
from last year’s flood. Water spots stain the yellowing pages as I turn them,
accusing and injured. No, fire isn’t the only threat to paper.
I close the book and place it on the cart. It’ll receive a
facelift, just like the others on my list. The water stains will remain, and
the pages can never return to white, but a new cover will protect it. I touch
the spine again, the title worn off from years of use, and try to imagine what
this book was like when first bound. If only I had power like Gandalf’s, maybe
I could make the pages pristine again.
“Leda?” Fran’s voice is loud in the library’s hushed
expanse, like the booming voice of the Wizard of Oz.
Even my breath is intrusive to the silence. “Yes?”
She walks between the stacks, tapping her watch. “It’s that
time.”
Time, that ever liquid entity, slipping through my fingers
as if it doesn’t exist – at least that’s how it feels when I’m wrapped up in a
book. So many books, so little time.
I nod, and Fran walks away, likely returning to her post at
the reference desk.
Low librarian on the totem poll, a mere assistant who has
only worked here for a few months, I have the job of clearing out the library
at closing time. Need to make sure not to leave any college students asleep in the
cubbies.
I glance at my watch, and sure enough, it’s a quarter to
midnight. Darn it – I spent too much time paging through the books
instead of simply gathering them to be repaired. I weave out of the stacks and
push the cart of forlorn texts into the large office behind the circulation
desk.
The student behind the desk, engrossed in homework, doesn’t
spare me a glance when I pass. A warmth fills me, memories of when I was in
college and working the same job. Most times I would be so wrapped up in a book
that I didn’t notice the patrons until they spoke, their words shattering the
illusion of the world I was lost in. I mean, walking into the Chamber of
Secrets with Harry has nothing on reality.
Those days are over, only a couple years past – no chance now
to plunge into someone else’s words while at work. Only at home, when relaxing
before bed. My sigh even sounds too loud for the silence, rough and hard on my
ears.
I start on the second floor, looking down all the stacks,
checking hidden corners – all good places to hide from the world and soak up
knowledge. All clear, including the bathrooms. The periodicals in the basement
are just as lonely.
Fran offers me a smile when I pass by the reference desk on
the first floor. So far, I’ve only found two students struggling over
statistics – they packed their bags up as soon as I told them it’s closing
time.
One room left. There are cubbies at the end of each row of
books in the reading room, so I look carefully, the sound of my flats sliding
on the carpet a calming balm, signaling the end of my night. At least in this
world – I intend to dip into another once home.
In the last cubbie, a student stares transfixed at a page of
the book open before her. I pause before I approach. A chill shoves out the
warmth I felt earlier. Her eyes aren’t moving; her hand, clasping the page to
turn it, is frozen.
I step closer. “Excuse me. The library is closing in five
minutes.”
She doesn’t respond and remains still, as if she’s a statue
perched on the chair, her hands melding with the book. A detailed piece of
artwork, like the metal monstrosity in the library foyer – unwavering, cold.
Goose bumps spring up along my arms, and I shiver, the
feeling I got when first crossing paths with Stephen King’s Pennywise.
I inch forward, the shushing of my shoes on the carpet no
longer a comfort, and place my hand on her shoulder. A
Every book has a heartbeat.
I caress the spine, cracked and aging, and pull the book
from the shelf. The musty scent irritates my nose. A part of the old cover
flakes off and flutters to the carpet.
Poor thing. Another victim of time, and barely a survivor
from last year’s flood. Water spots stain the yellowing pages as I turn them,
accusing and injured. No, fire isn’t the only threat to paper.
I close the book and place it on the cart. It’ll receive a
facelift, just like the others on my list. The water stains will remain, and
the pages can never return to white, but a new cover will protect it. I touch
the spine again, the title worn off from years of use, and try to imagine what
this book was like when first bound. If only I had power like Gandalf’s, maybe
I could make the pages pristine again.
“Leda?” Fran’s voice is loud in the library’s hushed
expanse, like the booming voice of the Wizard of Oz.
Even my breath is intrusive to the silence. “Yes?”
She walks between the stacks, tapping her watch. “It’s that
time.”
Time, that ever liquid entity, slipping through my fingers
as if it doesn’t exist – at least that’s how it feels when I’m wrapped up in a
book. So many books, so little time.
I nod, and Fran walks away, likely returning to her post at
the reference desk.
Low librarian on the totem poll, a mere assistant who has
only worked here for a few months, I have the job of clearing out the library
at closing time. Need to make sure not to leave any college students asleep in the
cubbies.
I glance at my watch, and sure enough, it’s a quarter to
midnight. Darn it – I spent too much time paging through the books
instead of simply gathering them to be repaired. I weave out of the stacks and
push the cart of forlorn texts into the large office behind the circulation
desk.
The student behind the desk, engrossed in homework, doesn’t
spare me a glance when I pass. A warmth fills me, memories of when I was in
college and working the same job. Most times I would be so wrapped up in a book
that I didn’t notice the patrons until they spoke, their words shattering the
illusion of the world I was lost in. I mean, walking into the Chamber of
Secrets with Harry has nothing on reality.
Those days are over, only a couple years past – no chance now
to plunge into someone else’s words while at work. Only at home, when relaxing
before bed. My sigh even sounds too loud for the silence, rough and hard on my
ears.
I start on the second floor, looking down all the stacks,
checking hidden corners – all good places to hide from the world and soak up
knowledge. All clear, including the bathrooms. The periodicals in the basement
are just as lonely.
Fran offers me a smile when I pass by the reference desk on
the first floor. So far, I’ve only found two students struggling over
statistics – they packed their bags up as soon as I told them it’s closing
time.
One room left. There are cubbies at the end of each row of
books in the reading room, so I look carefully, the sound of my flats sliding
on the carpet a calming balm, signaling the end of my night. At least in this
world – I intend to dip into another once home.
In the last cubbie, a student stares transfixed at a page of
the book open before her. I pause before I approach. A chill shoves out the
warmth I felt earlier. Her eyes aren’t moving; her hand, clasping the page to
turn it, is frozen.
I step closer. “Excuse me. The library is closing in five
minutes.”
She doesn’t respond and remains still, as if she’s a statue
perched on the chair, her hands melding with the book. A detailed piece of
artwork, like the metal monstrosity in the library foyer – unwavering, cold.
Goose bumps spring up along my arms, and I shiver, the
feeling I got when first crossing paths with Stephen King’s Pennywise.
I inch forward, the shushing of my shoes on the carpet no
longer a comfort, and place my hand on her shoulder. A
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