The Shelf Temperature

The Dewey Decimal card catalog smells of vanilla and old rain. I run my hand along the spine of a book; the paper is warm, radiating heat near the elbow joint. A man stands across a table, thumbing through a ledger bound in ochre leather. His eyes catch mine, a glance that pulls recognition from a pocket I do not own. He tilts his head. Next to him, his brother is standing, a boy with my jawline and my mother’s striped socks. The man reaches out and gently knocks the boy aside. The boy drops to the floor, now wearing my own yellow corduroys and a shirt printed with the year 1998. The photograph rests on the desk. My face is a pale smudge in the corner, visible only where the light strikes the emulsion. I wait for the smudge to clear.