Upon returning a book late, the librarian explains to me, “To forget a book is forgivable, but to forget the words is a travesty.” It is overdue because I didn’t finish reading it within three weeks. Seems like a good excuse. Of course when I hand her the book a month late, I still haven’t finished it. I ask the librarian if she can tell me about the ending. She can only explain that we all define endings differently. An ending is wherever you stop. I tell her I stopped halfway through the first chapter. That’s a lie. I actually read half the book, but I don’t like to make things easy for librarians.

People always want their books back. I don’t like the look librarians give you when you have their belongings. To be longing for. She sits there, behind the counter, waiting for a book I borrowed. When I tell her I barely started the book, she smiles at me. Like she knows I am the kind of guy who can’t finish anything. I explain that the story began well, but I thought it wouldn’t end well. So I stopped reading.

The book was worn out from so many others reading it, only the final pages still somewhat crisp. I wasn’t the only one creating his own ending. The first page had a yellow stain on the right side and the bottom of the page had been bent oddly, like origami was a better alternative than starting this story.

The librarian watches as my eyes roll upward, the way they do when I search for memories. It’s strange that memories are held in the upper part of the eye socket. Like a book being written and re-written every day, that I can just glance up and read from whenever I need to. The librarian waits, as if I might return that book as well.

She asks me if I want to check out another book. Very casual like. The only way a librarian can act cool. I smile through her coolness, and her mask falls off. I catch it with one hand and try to give it back to her. She stares at my empty hand, but accepts the return as librarians are trained to do. She’s cute. Not for a librarian. I tell her I want another book, but I’m not sure which one. She hands me a thin book, and asks me to finish this one in three weeks. I don’t like deadlines, I inform her. If someone told me I was going to die at eighty-six years old, I don’t think I could accomplish a thing over the remaining decades. I would just be left worrying. She’s cute, but she worries me. The cute ones always do.

I take the book, only twenty-three pages. I always check the page count. I open it to the first page as if I plan to read the whole story in front of her. I almost do to prove I can read a book. I had a feeling she didn’t think I could. I think out loud, how I felt when I read my first book over one thousand pages. When I crossed the 1,000th page mark, I tried to remember what I read in the first five hundred pages. I never read a book that long again. What else do you need to say that you can’t say in a few sentences and a quick drawing? A drawing speaks a thousand pages. Something like that. I think Tolstoy would have just called a painter lazy.

The librarian asks me to keep my voice down. I dated a librarian before. Always asking me to keep my voice down wherever we went.

I look into her naked eyes. She’s not wearing glasses. I almost ask where her glasses are, but I’m afraid she will put them on. I ask if I can have an extension on the twenty-three page book. I tell her I don’t understand why writers are allowed to have block, but readers aren’t. If I can’t picture what the writer is describing, there isn’t much use reading on.

I take the thin story and walk away as if following a windy creek. Straight lines never get you anywhere. There is a table with two chairs, facing each other. I randomly choose the one facing the librarian. I’m sure she doesn’t notice it was luck.

Libraries are quiet. All that reading and thinking and not a sound other than a page turned to remind you where you are.

I open the cover and lick my lips. I read with my lips, so people know I’m reading. Sometimes out loud without knowing it. Do writers move their lips? I read it aloud to share with others around me. The librarian walks over to tell me I am acting inappropriately. I tell her the truth – that I imagined this story written, but never spoken. I am the first to speak these words.

She isn’t amused. If you want to amuse a librarian, tell her she’s cute. Don’t break the library rules by amusing yourself with your own voice.

She pauses and says thanks and her face goes red. She worries me. All that blood to the face will make you pass out. I put out my arms quickly to catch her from falling, as I read the story in her eyes. She imagines she falls, but doesn’t move.

I say excuse me and nod toward the thin book. I open it to page seventeen as if I were almost through and tell her I need to finish. I wish I emphasized “finished”, in a more tactful manner because her face fades back to white, library floor white. I can see she wants to run, but librarians can only walk fast. I don’t know if it is the long skirts or the rules.

She sits back down in her chair and doesn’t look up. I quickly turn back to the first page to actually start reading. The first line of the book says, Kiss her. I re-read it, this time using my lips to mouth the words, a different sentence all together. I remember the true reason why I read with my lips. Because reading with the imagination never follows the words.

People around me look more focused, as if they’re only pretending to read. The pale librarian studies something on her desk. She is clearly pondering something when I stand up and run toward her.

I tend to worry. And worrying makes me question ideas. The only way to prevent my mind from racing back in the other direction is to pick up my feet and let momentum carry me. So I run the short distance to her desk with the book in my hand.

I have broken the rules.

She breaks the rules when she looks up and doesn’t scold me.

You gave me this book and I haven’t even finished a page. I read the first line with my imagination and it was about you. I don’t want to continue a story about you without me in it.

She places out both of her hands to catch the mask that falls off my face, but I grasp her hands with my own and don’t let go.

About the Author

Mark Patrick

Mark is an American currently living in Singapore. He escapes the heat by hiding in his air conditioned room writing the occasional short story. He believes that short stories are a result of a moment that must be captured in one sitting, written from beginning to end and never edited.