untethered

Violet had never met another who recited quotes as did she. She often thought it annoyed people that she could read books that she’d scanned into her mind. But here was a kindred spirit, one that had the same words inked into his mental notepad.

This was dangerous territory, though. She could be a walking encyclopedia –– literally –– if unchecked. She didn’t want to scare him, but her tongue was like a bullet, eager to be fired.

“They’re both lovely, aren’t they, Plato and Aristotle?” She grinned, realising how horrifically academic she sounded. It was all those books, surely. She wasn’t turning into a snob, was she?

That concerned her for a moment.

“I love that line. I love that whole section.” She prayed he wouldn’t take her as a smartass, but rather, as someone with an insatiable desire to hear the entire quote, like wanting to hear an entire verse of a song rather than just that final satisfying line. “Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”

She then realized he had asked her a question she’d failed to respond to. “Violet.” She pointed at her nametag, where she’d written her name in cursive font. For no utter reason at all, she absentmindedly added, “Like the colour...., or the girl in Charlie & The Chocolate Factory who blows up into a bubble gum balloon,” as if he didn’t get it (but in truth, she was feeling a bit excited now from flexing her quoting muscles, she couldn’t help it).

Violet wasn’t quite sure what to make of this guy, who waltzed in with fake proof of ID to get a library card, and was now fascinated by Thales of Miletus. Usually, people fit into tropes and stereotypes when they wandered into a library. The secretly sex-crazed girl with innocent glasses, the self-proclaimed lost soul who tattooed Sartre to their bicep, the depressed professor, whose life had left him for a foreign lover, and who read Shakespeare to forget about his own life....

Tyler did not fit in these categories. With his downturned eyes that still sparkled with keen interest, Violet was intrigued.

She’d read enough stories. Reality was what she thirsted for. And if only for a moment, he provided an interesting character study.

“You’re going ancient,” she joked. “Perhaps you might like...” Violet wandered a little down the hall to the A section. She pulled out Poetics by Aristotle, an all time classic, popular, but perhaps appealing to him nonetheless.

“This is one of my favourites.”

Violet gazed up at him, playing with his library card. There was something coy about him. Writers of 20th century prose often used the word coquettish. Violet knew the word was often reserved for women, but she felt this man before her espoused it, without implying anything effeminate about him.

It was clear, he knew how to play. It was refreshing. Although it was a library, Violet mostly spent her days performing mindless tasks. She could use some stimulation. She’d already daydreamt an entire lifetime’s worth by morning.

“I did not know that.” She quickly stood up, happy to have an excuse to wander the magical book-lined halls. “But, yes. Let me show you, it’s easy to get lost in here.”

And I want to walk around. I’ve read Madame Bovary five times and have memorized it.

She didn’t say that part.

She headed towards the back and snaked through the shelves, peering over her shoulder to make sure he was following her.

“What kind of philosophy are you looking for? They’re all in this section, but there are millions of authors. If you’re interested in Nietzsche, for example, N is down there.” She pointed to a corner. “But, there are some great philosophy novels hiding in other sections, due to sorting purposes. What, specifically, are you looking for?”

Was she stalling to get away from work, or because she was curious what a kid with a fake paper for a library card and a thirst for philosophy could want?

Both was most likely.

The New York City Public Library was spacious enough to handle a significant amount of noise. It would be wise to take note of all the mixed bodies of people that it took to fill the room. Tyler found it inappropriate that a place so dedicated to silence took the liberty to make such a vast amount of space. It could have been the irony of the building or it could have been the insecurity within himself that his footsteps were too loud and addressed his arrival more than he intended it to.

Tyler walked without much concern or regret in his facial features. His hand held his backpack over his shoulder. The journey to the desk felt like a long shot, but the journey was relatively short and he had made it without a scratch. He set the bag down at his feet and pulled out a list for the young girl that faced him on the other side of the counter.

“I-” His voice startled him, forgetting about the silence. Tyler lowered his volume and leaned in, placing the paper down on the desk and tapping gently at it. It was false proof of citizenship to NYC. He had only just settled into the city an hour ago from Detroit.

“I want to sign up for a library card,” whispered Tyler while he slid his fake ID towards the librarian. There was no particular way she could tell the ID was illegitimate. She worked at a library, not a liquor store or anything of real importance.

It was her fifth time reading Madame Bovary. But what could one expect from a girl working in a library?

She loved the world he painted. Even if every novel in the universe, particularly Fitzgerald (another favourite, naturally) warned against the lavish life, Violet longed for it. And she couldn’t help but search for it everywhere she went.

Hence, the fifth time, to the point where Violet could already recite the words before her on page 54...

“At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the---”

"Library card...” Wait, no. That wasn’t...

Violet looked up. She wasn’t used to people doing anything besides slap their books on the counter, waiting for her to aimlessly scan. She flipped the book over to save the page, even though she remembered it, of course, page 54.

“Oh, right.” She straightened herself at her seat and glanced up at the disheveled man and took his paper. “Okay, just give me a moment to input you in the system, read this, basically don’t steal our books, don’t write in them, er, just don’t abuse the system, frankly.” She slipped a piece of government paperwork about owning a card like Don’t Abuse Your Privilege to Read! Return your Books! or some crap.

Typing the words in, she noticed this font was different. Paper weight was also lighter, and the letter spacing was a little off from usual.

It was fake. It was quite clear, the longer she stared at it.

No matter, though.

It only took a few moments to input his name. Tyler Mitchell. Male. Blah, blah, blah. He had such sad eyes, she noted, when she gazed up at him. The printer went off, creating a card for him.

She slid over in her chair, and put the card in between her fingers, and as she handed it over to him, she lowered her voice and darted eye contact from him as she said, “By the way, I hope you didn’t pay the guy who made you this too much, cause the font is quite off.”