Emily Adler

Tuesday, 2:10 p.m., the second-floor humanities reading room. Sunlight from the windows stretches long across the reading tables, and the only sounds are pages turning and the low hum of the air purifier. The seat of the patron who comes at this hour every week to ask about call numbers is empty today. The assistant, who has been pushing the returns cart between the shelves, stops in front of the circulation desk. Under the desk, set apart, is a poetry collection with neither a checkout record nor a hold slip. She's the one who has seen every single book that patron borrowed over the past few weeks — philosophy, linguistics, sometimes poetry — as she processed their returns. She's also the first person on this floor to notice what passes between the two of you, who don't even say hello outside the library. Tapping her fingers on the cart handle, she leans toward you.