Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. - Fernando Pessoa
"Hello, Alan. Haven't seen you for a while."
"Hi, Mrs Burke. Yeah, work's been pretty hectic. I was wondering if - "
"If I still had your book? I told you I'd hold it for you." Smiling, the older woman got up carefully and moved to a small cabinet behind the desk. Unlocking it, she reached in and pulled out a small book.
"There you go, Alan. Didn't even lose your bookmark."
"Thanks so much, Mrs Burke. I promise I'll finish it today."
"You have time, then?"
"All day."
"That just means I'll be putting a different book away later." She chuckled and shushed him away.
Smiling, he walked quietly through the rows of books, slipping through the back door. The neighborhood garden club had reclaimed the empty lot behind the library, and scattered among the flowers and shrubs was a variety of chairs, benches, and tables. He went directly to his favorite spot, where a wicker rocker sat discreetly behind a rotund lilac.
He sighed contentedly before opening the book. He liked Mrs Burke, the librarian. They had developed a friendship of sorts over the years. She thought he was some kind of businessman, traveling a lot so he never kept a permanent residence. It was she who offered to keep whatever book he was reading in that cabinet, so he could continue to read it when he was back in town. Unnecessary, of course, but that's what made it so special to him. Made her special to him.
Smiling, he opened the book, read a couple pages before the bookmark, to remind himself of where he had been. For the next several hours, he would be some place not here, doing things he'd never do, being someone he'd never be. For the next several hours, he would be in this different and happier world.
And he knew, when he returned the finally finished book, Mrs Burke would have found yet another world-not-his for him to live in. Just for a while.