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Thursday windows

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The library was awfully boisterous for a Thursday afternoon. I sat at a small glass table near the café, which was nestled in between the two studying areas. A small group of students lined up behind the main desk, awaiting their turns to check out whatever novels they’d plucked from the hundreds of shelves. Most for classes, I figured. Those were usually the easiest to pinpoint. Always appearing tired or in distress, they gripped their novels loosely at their sides while scratching at exposed forearms and hastily tapping their feet in blatant frustration.

The others stood in oblivion, backs slightly hunched, enthralled in the first few pages of their novels. One boy, exceedingly tall in stature, held a mustard-spined book at his chest which made the hem of his shirt rise slightly above his belt—exposing the white of his belly. His fingertips turned a slight red as his dark brown eyes swam over the text. I wondered what he could be reading. His jet black hair bent at his shoulders, and with one hand still gripping his book, he tucked a few strands behind the temple arms of his thin-framed glasses. He was uncommonly handsome.

Before the boy could turn to the next page, a young woman tapped his shoulder, signaling that it was his turn in line. He picked up a canvas bag that sat at his tattered shoes, threw it over one shoulder, closed his book, and stepped toward the librarian’s desk.

I then figured it was time for me to move on, as well. I’d been sitting at the little glass table long enough for my cinnamon raisin bagel to become cold. Throwing what was left of my lunch in the trash, I walked into the studying area on the far left. I looked for a nook by a window. Those were undoubtedly my favorite of places to sit in—where I could watch my peers bustling beneath me along the walkways. I often lost myself in observation, which was never beneficial to my schoolwork.

I noticed a girl sitting in a window nook that overlooked the lake, her legs crossed and propped upon the desk before her. She held the school newspaper in her hands and I recognized a picture on one of the pages. It was Tuesday’s paper. I was published in it. I walked over and sat in a chair across from her, seeing as though all of the other places were fully occupied. She peered above the paper. We exchanged smiles. Perhaps it was my intruding wonder, or simply her intense character, but I’d never seen anyone read a newspaper like she did. Her brow furrowed in such a way that I almost felt inclined to ask which article she was reading. She turned each page carefully, sometimes flipping back as if she’d forgotten what she’d just read.

I wondered if she was reading my article. I smirked at the thought. The mere thought that this girl was reading my words, drawing conclusions of an author she’d been sitting right in front of this entire time, interested in things I’d written about—art and culture and Dorothy Eckmann.

It was then that I’d remembered why I was there, in the library. I watched as the girl combed through her short blonde hair and finally put the paper down, moving to her laptop.

I pulled out my black spiraled notebook and waited for something to happen. Anything.





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