The Library Continues Without Me

The air smells of old paper and warm spice. I trace a finger across the spines; the books give off heat. A rotary telephone sits on a mahogany desk, yellow enamel, cord dangling off the hook. A stranger passes the main stacks, his jacket the color of wet asphalt. His eyes catch mine, and the recognition hangs, a weight in the throat. I turn toward the back room, the one with the oak door that lists the years I never lived. I push through the door, but the room stays lit. The shadows pool on the floorboards. I walk down the corridor where the light is yellow, and the room keeps pace, always a few steps ahead.