The Last Rose of Summer

“ACHOOO!”

If I were a sidekick (because let’s face it, librarians wouldn’t make good super heroes), this would be the tagline: Here comes Snot Man and his trusty sidekick, Tissue Man! Saving the city from allergies, one tissue at a time! Here I was saving the world from allergies, but who would save me when I succumb to hay fever?

It was her. I must not have heard her come in that night while I tended to some important duties (“I want this rolodex organized when I come in tomorrow!”), but she came in almost every night. I don’t know where it is she works, but judging by the black polo shirt and black pants, it must be a place where she serves other people. I’ve worked a lot of joe jobs myself; any place that makes its money from serving people food or drinks never wants its employees to look human, let alone attractive.

And if that’s what they’re trying to do to her, it didn’t work. I rushed to the mystery section where she sat, swinging her head back and forth and not looking forward until I stood before her. Her green eyes flashed with gratitude.

“…I brought you tissues. Sorry it’s not much.”

“You’re a knight,” she said, dabbing her nose.

“So what else can I do for you?” She raised an eyebrow and I grimaced behind my geek goggles.

Why don’t you tell her that you sleep in Star Wars bedsheets too, you twit?! Wait, who says “twit” in 2015?!

“Lots of people do actually.”

…and I should work on keeping my inner monologue inside.

“So, seriously,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?” She shrugged.

“How about finding me a book I like?”

“What do you like to read?” I asked, beginning to look down the aisles.

“Don’t bother looking there,” she said. “I already read everything.”

“Everything?!”

“Yeah.”

“There have to be hundreds of books in this section alone!”

“Yeah, I bet. Feels like I read thousands.”

“And none of those books appeal to you?”

“Not enough to take them home. But hey, I haven’t hit up the non-fiction just yet. Or the encyclopedias.”

“Well, we have the science fiction section here,” I said, beginning to walk towards the shelves in question, “and you’re in luck because we actually got a new shipment—”

“What are you reading?” I stopped and turned around, realizing she hadn’t followed me.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You work at a library. I imagine you read a lot.”

“Yeah—library application forms and notes from my boss to please dust the front.”

“But no one’s ever asked you that? Ever?”

“No one thinks about that when you’re handing them a notice that they owe the library money.” She offered me an apologetic smile.

“Then tell me,” she said. “I don’t make enough money to go to Barnes and Noble to buy a book and realize I hate it when I get home. It’s like the literary equivalent of a failed marriage. So I’m asking you: what book are you reading that you can see me taking home so I don’t have to spend countless hours here?”

She didn’t want to spend her nights here, alone with a book that didn’t make her happy. And I just didn’t want to spend my nights alone, period.

When I looked at her again, the frown on her face was not of boredom or disgust—only desperation for hope.

I led her to the front desk and picked up my personal copy of Thomas Moore’s poetry.

“He hung out with some of the greatest Romantic poets,” I told her. “It’s like literary Prozac. Minus the side effects. And it should help that you don’t have to read them in order, like what you’d have to do with a novel. Pick and choose.”

She began to flip through the book, glancing over a few poems. The corners of her lips began to rise, along with my heart rate.

“…This one is a little sad,” she said, showing me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her this was my favorite one.

“‘Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,’” she read quietly. “‘All her lovely companions have faded and gone’.”

“My favorite part is actually the last stanza,” I said. “Even though it’s a little bleak too.”

“Where?” she said, turning the book to me. I held onto the book, and I grazed her finger; I was relieved that her first reaction wasn’t to pull away in disgust.

“‘When two hearts lie withered,’” I said, allowing the rhythm to lead the way, “‘and fond ones are flown, oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?’” When I looked up from reading, her ivy eyes looked like they had opened for the sun.

“That’s a good question,” she whispered. “But I have another one.”

“What’s that?”

“How do I borrow this book without a library card?”

“You don’t; this is my personal copy.”

“You brought your own book to a library?”

“I borrowed a book here a year ago, and the doctors still haven’t figured out what I contracted.”

“Uh,” she said, squirming (God, why can’t I say something to a woman without her having a reaction like this?!), “when do you want this back?”

“Don’t. You don’t have to.”

“Are you giving this to me?”

“Yeah.”

“But, why?” I forced the lump down my throat.

“So you don’t have to come back,” I said. “And maybe this time, you can spend countless hours with something you love instead.”

She was about to say something, but the clock struck eleven, and I immediately changed the subject to the fact that I had to close the library down before shooing her out.

I did the right thing, I told myself as I walked in the dark parking lot to my car. As I sat down, I gripped the steering wheel. My heart tied itself in knots at the thought of never seeing her curled up by the window, staring out into the autumn sun with a lonely book on her lap. She was the first person I met that didn’t judge a book by its cover—just its contents.

I jumped when my passenger door opened.

“What are you doing?” I asked her as she tucked my book between the door and her thigh. “Do you need a ride home or anything?”

“No,” she said, putting on her seatbelt. “I just don’t like stealing.”