The Library Girl

I think of her as the Library Girl. She probably had a beautiful name–like Rebecca or Eileen or Annette–a name she probably would have told me if I’d been able to ask, but I don’t know what it is and even the most creative fantasy can’t completely occlude a far brighter reality. The truth flows out from behind the false cover, like the corona glows around the eclipsed sun, tormenting you with the knowledge that fantasy is the only way your weak eyes can bear to look directly at the truth. And so I think of her as the Library Girl.

It happened in February. I shambled out of the cold and into the library atrium, kicking sidewalk salt from the wheels of my roller backpack. My aunt gave it to me after I tore my rotator cuff. Somehow, I imagine the backpack trailing behind me was a distinguishing feature, something that made me memorable to the Library Girl.

I was distracted that day, with something on my mind. I can’t imagine what it might have been. Head bowed, I dragged my bag down the grand staircase and wandered into Periodicals. I always studied there because it was silent and the skylights let in real daylight so I could study without feeling like I was trapped in a cave. I walked automatically, with my head down and my brow furrowed. I remember feeling that, my brow furrowing.

Walking into Periodicals, the chairs line the walls, hard upholstered chairs like you’d expect to find in a lawyer’s reception room. That’s where students sit to read or whisper to friends or sleep when they get tired of desks and hard chairs.

As I walked past the chairs, probably past a dozen people, I looked up and saw a girl sitting in the last chair, right beneath a skylight. The sun shone down, casting her in a pool of warm yellow–making her brown, shoulder-length hair glow. It sounds cheesy, but it looked like a halo circling her face. It was a nice face, with long lashes and a memorable nose. She wore an autumn-colored dress, clean and tasteful, that flattered her long, petite figure. She was just a little more dressed-up than anyone else in the library, complete with a colorful scarf wrapped around her slender neck.

I saw all this in a glance, as she sat there reading her book, taking it in as one complete picture. “Wow,” I thought to myself. “That’s a beautiful girl.”

In that moment, before my mind could finish the thought, she lifted her head to look directly toward me. She smiled–the kind of smile that starts in the heart and radiates out the eyes–and she waved.

I stopped mid-stride, stunned. I looked behind me, around, to the sides. There was nobody else there. There she sat in her own circle of sunlight, leaning forward and smiling at me like an old friend, like someone happy to see me.

I never said a word to her. I must have managed a confused smile and maybe a wave as I tried to figure out who she was, how she could have known me.I felt like an idiot an hour later when i realized that she didn’t know me, but she wanted to.

I saw her a few weeks later, while studying in Periodicals. She walked past my table, walking slowly. She really was every bit as beautiful as I’d remembered, radiating a happy aura, and as she walked past, she looked over at me and smiled. Just a shy, inviting smile like she was wondering if I’d talk to her.

In that moment, I was afraid. I couldn’t think of a word to say. And she walked by. I haven’t seen her since.

That was three years ago. Occasionally, I still study in Periodicals for some reason, even though it isn’t quiet anymore. And I wish she’d walk by again. I’ve begun to forget what she looks like, so I might not recognize her anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I should get another roller backpack. Maybe I’d be pulling it along through a crowd and she’d see me, and then I might get another chance. But I don’t daydream about her. I don’t invent a story for us, me and the Library Girl, for how things should have happened. I still date other girls, but the memory still bothers me. I failed. It’s painful, like staring at the sun, to face your own weakness like that. But the burning spots in your vision make it real. And if I did happen to see her again, I’d smile back and ask her name.

Has anyone seen my Library Girl?