The Seasonal Librarian

Inside, dark doesn’t come close. I edge forward, fuse-gone-on-the-stairs slow; looming shadows lead me to the desk. Single bulb, I see him now - as ancient as the place itself.

I sneeze; not cleaned for years. No money, he explains, wrinkled hands like over-ripe apple hold the pen on the blotting pad. Face kind, but defeated. Its why he’s here.

He tells his story - used to work deliveries, seasonal, night-time, appreciative clients. Times have changed, its online and mechanised. No-one remembers him, no-one wants him. 

This place offered welcome solitude, but it’s dying too, its all digitised. That’s progress. Poor career advice, he jokes.

He waves an invitational arm, I explore the shadows. I choose, and place it on the desk. Dust dances again, I sneeze. Can’t return it for a while, I explain, home now - its Christmas. 

Apple hands squeeze mine around the book – keep it. No-one checks them now. My face brightens, his briefly flickers alive, then dies.

I turn to leave, walk to the blackness again; hands touch door. A shout startles me, I stop, fearing an offence. 

A primeval cry; “Happy Christmas son”, “You too” I mutter then I go outside.