Impropriety
“Art never expresses anything but itself.”
Oscar Wilde, The Decay of Lying: An Observation
The shelf was off. She sat down on the ground in front of it. Raymond Carver, Lee Child, Agatha Christie. She pulled the books off the shelf one by one, faithfully stacking them into a neat pile. She reached for the first book and slid it in at the left end of the shelf. The label was slightly off, she’d have to fix it later. The next book slotted in after it, and the next, until the shelf was back as it should be: with the authors alphabetically organized and the books chronologically ordered. But, maybe it would be better if the books were also alphabetical, for the symmetry?
The quiet chime of the door interrupted her as she considered her options. A tall and lanky man walked in and shook off his umbrella. He had on a rain jacket over an entirely weather-blind but nice-looking collared shirt and blue jeans. For a brief moment, she could hear the calming pitter-patter of raindrops on the road outside before the door closed behind him. She watched as he looked around the small, meticulously organized nonfiction section, his warm brown eyes not judging, but cataloging. He turned to the similarly small (and similarly well-organized) fiction section and saw her, his eyes lighting up. She stood as he approached her. He had lightly colored brown hair, a bit shaggy and a bit damp.
“Hello. I’m here to make a return?”
He held up a copy of The Great Gatsby. His hand had ink smudges on the side of his palm, as if he had recently been writing with a pen for a long time.
She led him over to the front desk, tucked into a dark corner near the door. Her seat was hidden underneath the desk, and the computer had a sticker on it proudly proclaiming the desktop was Y2K ready. She leaned over the desk and tapped the spacebar a few times. He leaned on the other side of the desk and smiled at her.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Delilah. Yours?” she replied.
“Sam.” He held out a hand for her to shake. She looked at him a moment and shook his hand.
“This will take a while,” she said. “You can leave if you want.”
“I will stay.” He broke the routine she’d probably had with a thousand customers. She paused, taken off guard.
“It appears to be raining,” he explained. “Besides, it is rather nice here.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. She scanned her card when prompted. She watched the loading circle pop up and, out of habit, headed back to the shelf she had been at earlier.
In her forgetfulness, she almost walked into Sam. He seemed to be perusing the nearest bookshelf, New Arrivals!, with each book stamped proudly with NYT Bestseller.
She moved over to one of the other corners where there was a comfy chair. From the chair, she could see the door, the desk beside it, and shelves upon shelves of books impatiently waiting to be opened. She grabbed a book off the side table. It opened neatly to the bookmark, a handmade one with 4/25 embroidered on it—a gift from her mother. She set it aside, found her place in the book, and watched him. Sam was moving around the library, occasionally crouching to look at a book or peering over the top of a shelf to see the ones displayed on wire stands. He kept moving, not stopping too long at a book, as if unwilling to be committed to any one.
He seemed to be moving closer to her. She turned a page. He stopped next to her, looking up at the reference texts. Unlike the vast majority of the books, which were shelved from the ground to six feet up or so, the reference books were along the back wall in floor-to-ceiling shelves under the largely correct impression that no one would want to read them anyway. He pointed up at the top shelf.
“Would you mind telling me what that book, up there, is?”
She looked up at him as if she had not been looking at him all along. His frame was slight beneath his coat. His eyes sparked with what appeared to be genuine curiosity.
On top of one of the shelves, three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, there was a book lying on its side on top of Encyclopedia Britannica's M, N, O, and P volumes. The book’s spine was facing the wall. She wasn’t sure what it was. That bothered her.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Let me check.” It was not a question.
She stood, finding herself only slightly shorter than him, and bustled off to the back end of the library, where there was a ladder marked with a dusty ‘Staff Only’ sign. It was really less of a ladder and more of a mobile staircase. If the staircase was incredibly steep and would collapse if someone looked at it wrong. She unlocked its wheels. The metal protested. She pushed it over to the shelf he was talking about and started up the ladder, feeling it creak concerningly under her. Sam, politely, did not watch her go up the ladder, seemingly just as fixated on the book as she was. She reached the top as the cacophony of metallic complaints grew louder, and laid a hand on the book. Before she could turn it over, though, the step fell out from under her. Her mind was reduced to a series of short flashes and fears: falling—broken neck—hospital—paralysis—death—arms—warm—crash—ouch. Lucid thought returned to tell her she had fallen on top of Sam. She stood up rapidly, seeing him on the ground under her.
“Are you hurt? I’m so sorry!” Would he sue her for this? She didn’t have a lawyer.
“I am unhurt,” he said, brushing himself off. “I was trying to catch you, but it seems as if my habit of skipping the gym has done me harm. Are you well, Delilah?” His gaze seemed to peer past her eyes and into her soul.
“I’m fine,” she said. She thought she was, at least. He had broken her fall, and instead of a broken ankle, or worse, it seemed she would get off with nothing but a small bruise to her side and a large bruise to her pride. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her warmly. She looked away, afraid she was flushing. If not like a schoolgirl, then like stepping outside on the first day of winter into an invigorating chill. One of the wheels on the ladder had given way, which must have led to her fall. The ladder was leaning worrisomely, but it appeared as if all else was undamaged. She held up the book. It was dusty and bristling with sticky notes. There must have been a research student who sorely missed it.
“It’s Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Sam chuckled. “You have helped me plenty today, I think.”
She couldn’t help but laugh as well, and after a moment, he joined in. It was the kind of deep laughter that could only be had after a near-death experience or possibly three shots, and only be shared with one who had likewise undergone the experience. It was more hysterical than comedic.
She went to reshelve the book. It was the only text they had by Hawthorne in the entire library—a crime. She would have to check if it was in the catalog.
She took the book to the front deck, where the computer had finished loading. Sam followed. She scanned The Great Gatsby and waited until it was officially returned. The loan was out to a ‘Samuel Fisher.’
“All finished,” she said.
“Actually, I would like to check out The Scarlet Letter, if that is fine with you? After all the trouble you went through, it seems a shame to leave it.”
“One second.”
She scanned the book. The computer gave her an error: barcode not found. She gave it to him. She watched him reach for it, wondering if he would leave.
“Thank you,” he said with too much gratitude for such a simple task. Their hands brushed when he took the book from her. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave as he went back to wandering the shelves aimlessly.
After a period of silence, where she returned to her chair to continue pretending to read, he approached her.
“I apologize if this is too forward, but are you free tonight?”
She knew the correct answer to the question, but instead, she gave the true one.
“Yes. The library closes at eight.”
“Would you like to have a meal after close? I recently moved here for my M.Ed., and I don’t really know anyone.”
She knew the correct answer. It was the same one. Again, she instead gave the truth.
“I’d love to.”
He smiled. She smiled back. His face had light creases where, in a few years, smile lines might form if he continued to smile as he was smiling then.
He sat on the ground next to the chair and opened Hawthorne, seemingly content now to settle down with a book. She returned to her text with mixed success, looking down at his face, concentrated on the novel, until the door chimed. The rest of the visitors for the day seemed content to follow the patterns she had been accustomed to, with her exchanging no more than 10 words with any of them. She closed the doors at 7:58. Yesterday, she had closed at 8:45, finding herself in no hurry to leave.
Sam followed her out. He looked a bit out of place on the sidewalk. “I do not normally frequent this part of town, I’m afraid, but my roommate swears by an Indian restaurant around here. He said what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in the food. It closes at 10?” He phrased the statement like a question.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said, uncertain of what he was looking for from her.
She sat in the passenger seat of his car. It was the kind of semi-messy all cars older than two years seemed to trend towards. She picked up a pile of receipts from the console as he drove. The one on top was for gas, a week ago. Below it, groceries from a month ago. Below that, a trip to Home Depot two weeks ago. That wouldn’t do. She grabbed a paperclip from her bag and flipped through them. How best to accomplish this? She thought about sorting them all by date, but perhaps his student grant only covered some of it? It might be better to sort by expense, then by date. She experimentally sorted the top ten in that order. It made more sense. Sam could properly tell exactly how much money he was spending on gas, groceries, and everything else.
Maybe, though, he was taking them home to put into a spreadsheet. It would be more convenient if they were ordered by date. She tapped her fingers on the door nervously. She turned to ask him how he would prefer them sorted, only to see him staring at her with a strange softness in his eyes.
“We’re here, Delilah.” His face was saying volumes more than his mouth, but as ever, she seemed less than fluent in the language. She put the receipts down.
The restaurant was small. The dim lighting lent the booth tucked into the corner a strange and dangerous sense of privacy.
A young man came by and gave them menus. “It has English on the back,” he said. “Have a wonderful evening.”
She looked at Sam, and Sam looked at her. The restaurant had not been what she was expecting. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but not this. Some vile part of her had hoped for it.
Sam broke the silence. “What do you want to eat, Delilah?”
She looked up in a slight bit of confusion, quickly masked. It had been a while since she had ordered for herself at a restaurant.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.
She stared at the menu. Chana Masala, Biryani, Dosa, Vindaloo. She flipped the menu over, only to discover she had already been reading the English side.
“Think about it as long as you need to, Delilah.” Sam smiled at her. He leaned in and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t happen to know any of these dishes. It seems my food education as a child was sadly remiss in covering the food of other cultures.”
The waiter came back soon after. “What can I get you to drink?”
They both ordered ice water. She stirred it idly with a finger. “So, why’d you move out here?”
“I would love to say this town has the best M.Ed. program this side of the Mississippi, but truthfully, this town has the M.Ed. program that accepted me.” He smiled. “It’s kind of funny, actually. I have a class devoted largely to understanding how smaller class sizes allow for better education, and I lecture to a class of 400 undergraduates.”
She snorted. “I don’t miss those classes. I’d rather have had you than the TA I did have, though.” She wasn’t sure why she had phrased it in that way: library science was different from education, and Maddie had been a wonderful TA. The smile he gave her told her why.
Some time later, the conversation having flowed pleasantly, if awkwardly, the waiter returned. “Have you decided on what to order?”
She hadn’t. She thought perhaps to ask for a recommendation, but some part of her rebelled. She hadn’t ordered dinner at a restaurant for herself for three years; would she really squander the chance by asking? She pointed at a dish largely at random.
“This one sounds nice.”
“Palak paneer?”
She nodded.
“I’ll have what the lady is having,” Sam said, his eyes sparking with amusement, not looking away from her.
“Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sam said, and looked at her. She was confused for a moment.
After a pause, she responded as well. “Yes, that’s it.”
The waiter left. The look in Sam’s eyes was warming some part of her that hadn’t seen the sun in years. It didn’t make it right.
“What do you do when you’re not blessing the library with your presence, Delilah?”
“I like to go on long hikes,” she said. “Listen to audiobooks and sit in the park.”
“You have an appetite for the outdoors,” Sam said. She nodded because it was better than the truth. He sighed. “I envy you, Delilah. I must have become nocturnal lately—I seldom see the sun. I spend much of my time at the library.” He shot her a glance, the purpose of which she could not decipher but which nonetheless scared and excited her in equal measure. “None so pleasant as yours, although many had better seating arrangements.”
She looked away, not wanting him to see her flush with pleasure. She wasn’t sure why her face warmed so.
The food arrived. It was pleasant and filling. She resolved to eat Indian more often and, hopefully, return to this restaurant. Perhaps—and the thought scared her—it was the company. They continued talking as they ate. She resolved to make the most of this moment. She had not yet done wrong. Sylvia Plath’s heart bragged, “I am, I am, I am,” but Delilah’s beat in her chest, reminding her, “Liar, liar, liar.”
She ignored it. Or possibly she didn’t mind. The server came by to collect their plates.
“You two are a delightful couple,” their server said. “How long have the two of you been married?”
“Oh, we aren’t married,” she said, embarrassed.
“Not tonight,” Sam said. His eyes had that same kindness, but they burned with a terrible need. It was a look she was unused to seeing.
The waiter left. She barely noticed.
“Should we pay?” Sam’s eyes had almost returned to normal. She begged them to return to what they had been entirely, to leave her and never see her again. She begged them equally to return to looking at her with that intensity.
“Sure,” she agreed, happy to at least have this to distract her. “Do you want to split it?” she asked, without any expectation of an answer in the affirmative.
As he seemed wont to do, he surprised her. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get the next one.”
“That sounds nice,” Delilah agreed, knowing full well there would never, could never be a next one. She placed a twenty on the table, as did he, and they left together.
Outside of the restaurant, it was getting colder. Sam put a hand on her back—it was warm and comforting, not stifling in the least—and escorted her back to his car.
“I’ll drop you off at home,” he said. “Where are you staying?”
She told him her address as they got in the car. She observed him as he sat behind the wheel. He started the car and turned on the heat. The windshield would need a few minutes to clear up.
She looked at him. He was looking at her. He stared through her eyes and into her soul.
“I had a great time tonight, Delilah.”
“So did I,” she said.
“I would love to kiss you.”
She said nothing.
“Do you want to kiss me?”
Damn her, damn her to hell, because again she told him the truth.
“Yes,” she whispered.
She kissed him until the windshield cleared, and she kissed him some more. She loved it. She hated herself.
At some point, they stopped. She stared at Sam. Sam stared at her. She felt her soul burning in his gaze. Her heart beat steadily in her chest. Sam drove her back to her house, where a stranger waited.
Victoria "Tori" Haneline is a junior double majoring in English and Environmental Science. She loves writing and is the Managing Editor for The Marlin Chronicle. Some of her literary favorites are Amber Sparks, Jane Austen and Cormac McCarthy.