2) Respect

Some days are better than others. The busier the better. Hiding away in the stacks with a full cart of books, away from Her. She knows I exist--it would be pathetic to say otherwise--but only as a coworker, which is still better than being just a monkey, as I am to most everyone else there. I suppose she respects me. At least she seems to feel she should, and does her best.

I am not often bothered as I work. Patrons don't know I can talk, and I wouldn't dare speak first; I have seen that look enough. Children--most of them, the ones not made afraid by their parents--like me, or are just fascinated by me. Some pet me like a dog. I don't like it, but at least it is attention. The worst ones I have come to recognize and can scale the shelves out of their sight and reach, making sure to reel in my tail. I will not be yanked to the floor again.

Her name is May, and we probably have nothing in common. She keeps to herself mostly, so I do not overhear much that she says. I hear a lot, because my coworkers seem to forget I can understand them or forget I am there at all, but May does not seem to join in the water cooler talk. But what could we have in common? What could we ever share? What sense is there in having feelings for her? Is that what makes it love?

I think I do a good job. When Gail brought me to the library from The Center she told them I scored exceptionally on certain tests that must have been relevant to the job. I think I already had the job, that it was not really the library's choice, and Gail was guiltily trying to justify my hiring. But I understand my job and did not take long to learn it. No one corrects me, but I wonder if that has anything to do with my work.