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            I’m standing at the threshold. I’m trying to make eye contact with the librarian at her desk, because I’m technically not allowed in this section without a child to accompany me. But my student and her mom are running late, and I don’t feel like walking over to the adult section, only to have to walk back again once they arrive. I just want to sit my ass on a bean bag chair. That’s what everyone wants, really. 

            Luckily the librarian recognizes me and waves me in. 

            I’m surrounded by books, but they’re all labeled “juvenile,” so I take out the novel I have in my backpack. Is it rude to read your own book at the library? Is that like bringing out a flask at a bar? No, it’s like bringing out a flask at a JUICE bar. Totally different. 

             I’m not too proud to pick up a children’s book. I’m just not in the right mood for that. Alas my book is boring, despite its strong beginning. I’m a voracious reader, surrounded by words words words, with nothing to read. Someone should write a poem, documenting the irony of my plight.

             I have a few novels stored in my phone that I haven’t read yet. But the library kids won’t know I’m reading a book, they’ll think I’m playing games or something, and I want to set a good library example. 

               It’s silly to assume anyone notices me at all. I’m as old as their parents, and as blandly dressed. My glasses are similar to the librarian’s. That is to say, I blend in with the other adults to the point of near invisibility. My backpack’s even the same color as the beanbag.

             I’m still debating what to do—should I make another attempt to enjoy my novel? Or forsake it for The Lorax?—when they arrive. I like them both, I just think it’s weird that they’re always in pink. I have nothing against pink. But what is this, the eighties? I remember the eighties; it wasn’t THAT pink. Pop culture history has greatly exaggerated how much pink was worn that decade.   

              Still, the girl is polite and smart, the mom is warm and a doctor (I think maybe ear nose and throat?). And other than the pink thing they seem normal, so I don’t judge. My son likes to wear underwear in the bath, I mean whatever.

                           *

             The three of us sit at the small square table. The mom knits, while I help my student practice for her spelling quiz. When we’re done with spelling prep, she takes out her math homework. This is the part of my job that’s easiest but also the most boring. She doesn’t need any help with her math homework, so I just sit there. Her mom at least has knitting to twiddle. I not-so-surreptitiously look at my phone, but her mom doesn’t care. She’s not an unreasonable woman. Like obviously I’ll check her daughter’s work when she’s done, but am I supposed to stare at her while she’s doing it? That’s creepy! Checking my email is therefore the responsible thing to do.

             Why do I keep getting car insurance emails? I don’t even drive! Do your fucking job, spam folder!

            My son’s school texts me. Apparently the kids have to vote for which dinosaur they want to represent them as the class mascot. Finally, some high stakes issues! 

            She’s done with her math homework. It’s perfect, as usual. Now it’s time to write a paragraph. You’d think I were suggesting she perform oral surgery on herself. Because it’s like pulling teeth getting her to write. She’s not bad at it. She just hates it. She’d rather be reading. Which, honestly, I get. Here she is, surrounded by books, and she has to write a bunch of sentences. As if the world doesn’t have enough sentences! It needs MORE? 

             Well, yes. It does. Because the world needs sentences written by her, and only her. That’s how it works. That’s how literature and libraries work, and why my job exists. Based on the premise that she has something unique to contribute, that these walls need.

            I mean it’s a paragraph on loose-leaf paper. It doesn’t have to be canon, yet.

            As she’s reluctantly moving her pencil, my mind wanders to the one time I made out with a guy in the library. He wasn’t a guy so much as a seventh grade boy. I was in eighth grade; our romance was a scandal. He texted me and my husband yesterday on the group chat, asking my husband advice about camera equipment.

             I check her work. It looks good. She did well, to endure the torture I put her through by demanding she write more than one sentence. Our time isn’t quite up, but I take mercy on her and allow her to read. Her mom pays me for a full hour session, but I figure if therapists can “rob” you of your last ten minutes, why shouldn’t I? I’m not morally superior to a therapist!

            Her mom and I talk, briefly. No pun intended: We’re on the same page. For a moment I genuinely love my job, which is dull and safe and pleasant. As comfortable as a bean bag chair.

            Don’t think about the teacher you wanted to be. Not every future comes to pass, not every potential book gets written, and yet libraries are full enough. There’s no need to mourn for the Books that Are Not. Let them collect dust in The Dreaming. 

            I say goodbye to my student and her mom, confirming I’ll see them the same time next week. I leave them to their reading and knitting respectively.

            As I walk to the parking lot where my husband and son are waiting for me, I see two teenage girls on a bench, smoking cigarettes. And the tiniest part of me wants to bum one, but that would be wrong on so many levels.