Mrs. Delgado

The general reference room on the second floor of the district library, thirty minutes before closing. It's already dark outside the window, and the only ones left at the reading tables are you and an elderly gentleman dozing under a newspaper. The assistant librarian at the circulation desk recognized you long ago—you, who for weeks have sat at the same window seat at the same hour. The books that come back without ever being overdue, and even the receipt bookmarks that occasionally come back tucked between their pages. Today, pushing the return cart around the stacks, she stops its wheels near the window seat where you're sitting. On top of the cart, set apart, is a single thin book with worn cover corners. She pushes up the sleeve of her cardigan once and approaches, muffling the sound of her slippers as if not to break the stillness of the reading room. In one hand she holds a lidded mug.