in silence

i was lying there between the 515s (biology) and 610s (health). my shoes on the floor by the 709s (pop art). my soul somewhere around 638s (cats). a breeze over head as a patron steps over me. no thanks you's. no excuse me's. a monopoly on volunteers and i am losing. community chest reads: go to jail. do not pass go. do not collect $200. i'm still lying in the aisle at 6pm. library closes. lights off. everyone leaves. i take a deep breath. next on jerry springer: librarians that lose it and the men that got them there. (fine print: today's show will not include fighting, midgets, or horse fuckers.) i consider the razor in my purse, and then remember it's just a toothbrush. and that cleaning my wrists holds no appeal for me.

there on the floor it's cool. anything above knee high and i begin to suffocate. i browse the lower shelves. i crawl on my knees, eyes sharp on the look out for crickets and spiders, my only companions. it's barely quiet at the library at 6pm. i hear shuffling in the back room. then i realize it's the racoons in the ceiling. i lie on my back again, content on watching through the tiny cracks of plaster. the squeal of babies is discomforting. they'll be asleep in the morning. i wish i could trade places with them. eternity at rest.
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then he's there between the fiction bra - che and che - cum. another hideaway. he's wearing blue chucks. his hair is thinning on the sides but he looks barely twenty. he looks wet but it's not raining outside. he scracthes a sideburn and shuffles his feet back and forth. his shoelaces are untied and i immediatly want him to fall on the ground. i want him to see me hiding behind the wheel chair ramp. i want to shout "hello, can i help you?" but it's after hours. it's not part of my job requirement to do that now. i am obsessed with gaining his attention without doing anything at all. i just stare a hole in his back. i figure the hot from my eyes will make him turn around.

he picks up a misplaced Cussler and flips though the pages. he's not concentrating, just leafing through the yellowed pages. this is an old novel from the old library. i've heard this story over and over again. about the tornado and the car and how we moved into the mall.

i think about the toothbrush. i lick my wrists and stroke down my hair. there there.

he puts down his backpack and unzips the top. he's slow to find his treasure. i see his left hand shake at his side. i hear papers, clattering of metal and finally a "thank god." he whispers. he scratches his ear.
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i black out.

"are you okay?" i'm being asked. i can see the sun through the skylights. "we thought you had left early. are you okay?"

i say nothing. i see the stretcher leaving from the library. "he was barely twenty." i overhear.

it's a shame. i wanted his last breath.
 
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