The Library

Against the window in the green chair with sunlight spilling over hair and glinting with every movement. Red toenails peeping out from feet tucked up under and chin propped up on a wrist with furrows over the brow. Anatomy text on the ground physics text in lap and a highlighter gripped in the free hand.

Thick glasses perched on the end of sagging nose and Oxford shirt ironed impeccably. A Tom Clancy novel held up as though a piece of music being read and conducted. A mole on the fourth finger of the hand and a battered wedding ring.

Upright in an orange chair, sensible shoes flat on the floor. Shimmering nude stockings in the light stealing through the plate windows. Carefully coiffed hair in neat waves with slides holding it all away from a faded face.  Lurid romance pages being turned languidly without expression changing at all. Just thin crepe hand lifting occasionally while eyes travel slowly.

Laptop. Large glasses. Pile of books. Even bigger headphones. Head dipping regularly in time with unheard beat. Fingers occasionally tapping rhythm soundlessly while the keyboard keys click softly. Concentration. Black hair in need of a trim. Unmatched socks.

Harrassed and hair unbrushed. Pulled back into an askew clip. Absent mindedly rocking the giant pram back and forth; back and forth. Magazine open on the bench beside and flicking through the pages without reading just looking at the pictures. Toddler on the floor at feet with a board book flicking through the pages looking at the pictures.

Heavy metal trolleys groaning with books wending across the carpet and squeaking. Books lifted and returned, one after another until all gone and then the trolleys abandoned at the end of rows. Some trolleys left full and no books unpacked, a cornucopia of other people's choices. Little flashes at someone else's psyche.

Tables littered with haphazard piles of books abandoned by their collectors. History books. Travel books. Western comics. Chick lit with pastel covers and wry, simpering by lines.

Sirens outside the plate glass. Everyone turns to look then as one moving beast turns back and starts reading again. Inhaling the sweet musty smell and losing themselves in new worlds. The cacophony of the many silent readers noisy and comforting.