Saturday afternoons we go to the library because it’s air-conditioned. The librarian rolls her eyes when she see us come in. We smile and greet her as though we’re old friends back from holiday, eager to catch up. Rob says one day, he’ll meet the woman of his dreams somewhere in the rows. Or he’ll pull a book from the shelf and see her through the opening. I laugh, but it stings. Just a little. A paper cut.
I wait until he’s busy and sneak away from literature to the true crime section. Sometimes I think I could work here.