Page 16 of The Librarians
Underneath the box that contains the half-finished game is another box. Judging by its weight, inside are the books she borrowed from her mother, a semiserious collector, for inspiration. But inspiration, sorely lacking for months, is no more forthcoming tonight.
She sighs, picks up the whole carton again, staggers a little under its weight, and carries it to the hall closet for storage. She’s about to shut the closet door when she glances up and recognizes a still-sealed package on the very top shelf.
She knows what’s inside: a two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of a sailing ship cutting across a cobalt blue sea. An old wistfulness takes hold of her. Reaching up a hand, she touches the edge of the box. A fine powder clings to her fingertips—her hopes, turned to dust.
“Hazel!”
Hazel closes the door on her past and heads downstairs. “Did your team win, Nainai?”
“Yes, but it was an ugly victory,” grumbles Nainai, standing by the newel post.
Hazel doesn’t have to ask what kids these days are doing; she only needs to check what Nainai is into, and then look online to find out that it’s either the hottest trend going or, even better, the next big thing.
“I forgot to put cilantro on the shopping list I gave to you earlier,” says Nainai. “Can you stop at H-E-B again tomorrow?”
Hazel strikes her own forehead. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t go to H-E-B at all. I’ll go now—and I’ll put cilantro on the list.”
She glances at her watch—nine forty, not too late.
“How was Game Night, by the way?” asks Nainai.
“Uneventful,” replies Hazel, pulling on her boots. “Which is all anyone can ever ask for.”
Closeted
I did not say yes because
If I opened my mouth
I would say far more than yes
I would say, don’t stop
I would say, kiss me
I would say, what is your middle name, if you have one
So I did not say anything
I let you touch me, your tongue on my skin
And then, I said, how dare you,
I did not say yes
Jonathan submitted the poem anonymously to his university’s literary magazine when he was nineteen, before the injury that ended his college football career. Two months ago, after his high school class’s belated and rather disorganized twenty-year reunion, he came back home, dug up a copy of the magazine, and took a picture of that meager confession.
Ever since then, he’s been on the verge of forwarding the image to Ryan.
Jonathan shifts on his living room couch, which is beginning to sag. Chimney, his cat, climbs onto his stomach, studies the glowing screen in his hand, and looks up at him, as if asking,Are you going to do it tonight? Finally?
He doesn’t. Instead he texts Ryan,Tell your roommate I’ve found his perfect woman.
Hazel, of course, has not agreed to meet with Conrad, Ryan’s roommate.
To his astonishment, a few minutes later his phone vibrates softly.
He’s out of town.
