[Today I sit in a different place.] The librarian, he makes a face. Shoes wet from the walk over the morning dew, they gish and shwish under my legs and the sun comes through. He smiles. I nod. TEEN TURF, a sign says. Should I move or not? “Restless leg syndrome”, I say. Come here often, his eyes almost say. He knows I do, for the last few weeks anyway.
An old woman concerned about her books. “Oh, oh dear!” She sounds like someone I used to hear, at school maybe, at Wal-Mart, or perhaps the park. He helps her, a gentle voice, deeper than his youth allows. Bald, I thought by choice, but maybe not. I move my foot, squish. Did he hear? Maybe I’ll just stay right near. I need new shoes; that much is clear. He tells a story to the woman, chuckles, puts his hand behind the desk, like it’s resting on his belt buckle. Acts it, but he’s not from here. “Have a good day,” he says as I leave. GISH SHWISH he hears.