The Warmth of Unassigned Cloth

The card catalog smells of vanilla and dust. I run a thumb over the spine of a book; the paper is warm, a persistent heat coming from the deep binding. I wear a heavy wool coat hanging on a rack, tailored green, its brass buttons dull and cool to the touch. Someone’s coat. I trace the weight of the shoulders. Today, I have no name, and the lack of it makes my skin feel buoyant, floating away from the bones. I slide my hand into the pocket of the coat. The weight inside is not mine. It is a substantial weight, the deep, familiar density of another person’s hand settling against my palm. The library shelves hum, a low sound coming from the fifth aisle, where the Dewey Decimal System is printed in silver ink. I press my thumb into the cool metal of the railing.