Kathryn Nicolai

The sun had set, and the street lamps had come on, all while I was deep in my studies.

rotating between all three as I worked.

I took a deep breath and just looked out through the windows, across the front lawn of the library, and down the street into town.

They were still serving, though the dinner rush was probably over.

I imagined satisfied diners leaning back in their booths and considering dessert.

Beside my books and pencil case was the to-go cup of tea I'd bought from the bakery before settling in to study tonight.

And when I reached for it, I found it nearly empty and the dregs gone cold.

I lifted an eyebrow and gestured to the collection of academic ephemera around me, asking in the quiet language of library-goers, Will you watch my stuff?

no buzzing fluorescent bulbs or overhead panels, and the sounds, already soft simply because of the nature of the building, seem even more muffled, as if the patrons and the environment itself have come to an agreement.

that if there is work to be done, after what might have already been a long day, then it should at least be done calmly.

And though my tea bag was a bit tired, I decided a weak cup of tea was better than none at all.

I refilled my cup and noticed a lively buzz coming from the children's section.

I leaned against the doorway and looked in as I dunked my tea bag in the hot water.

There were kids sitting in a half circle around one of the librarians.

who had a large felt board on an easel.

The story was about animals on a farm.

There was a big red barn and an apple tree and cows dreaming about life in the big city.

I took the stairs behind the non-fiction stacks to the second floor and walked slowly through the rows of shelves.

It reminded me of that odd feeling

of being up in a school hallway outside of school hours when I was a kid, on some evening after a basketball game in the gymnasium, remembering I'd forgotten my science book in my locker and needing to race up to get it.