This remodeled library is a glorious expanse, with airy, tall ceilings enveloping the shelves, and any number of comfortable chairs, high backed and low, set near the fireplace, or the magazines; some alone, some angled in pairs in cozy corners overlooking the trees, some clustered to encourage whispered conversations and hand covered giggles while sharing a favorite paragraph, or chapter.
There is everything you could want in this great new space. Large conference rooms, small glass front offices with screens and white boards begging for graphs and tables. Everything you could want, or need, or dream about, including privacy in an otherwise public area.
So tell me, Dude with the scruffy, long beard, and the grunge covered jeans, old boots and whatever else you hauled in with you, why did you think you had an invitation to push into my corner against my egg shaped cocoon chair, pile your newspapers on the table in front of me, then unceremoniously settle your arse in the chair touching mine, letting out a sigh as though I should look at and/or speak to you?
I was in the library alone by design. Lord knows I was not there to save anyone, speak to anyone, acknowledge anyone. I was there for a few minutes just to take some time to think and read in a beautiful, comfortable place. I know for a fact that there were at least fifty other empty chairs available…at least fifty. I briefly waited to see if you realized I was sitting there. Surely you did, and just as certainly, I realized you intended to continue to sit there. Rude douche. You must be related to those people in the grocery store who see you studying the spice rack, then elbow in front of you, rather than going around, to grab their can of red beans. Or those inconsiderate chicks who stand right next to you at clothing store, checking out the clothes YOU are holding in your hand.
You, Interloper, drove me from my magazine article about saving my fatty liver to the fiction section to find a Tami Hoag, or a Stephen King to calm myself with a horror filled murder or two. And now I am home, in my own comfortable chair, by my own toasty fireplace, still fuming, and hoping your skin develops boils, and your scruff is filled with gnats. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, as they say, I shall never encounter you near me ever again.
Amen, and hallelujah for lonesome spots in the world where you can sit in peace while contemplating your very own navel.