17) Context

I pulled a chair from an unoccupied desk to a cart of DVD's and stood on it to sort the top shelf. All these movies I have never seen are just words and numbers on stickers on the spines of plastic cases. At least I know enough of what that means to do my job. Much of what is here in the library has no context to my life besides putting it in order. I can not tell if it has any more meaning to any of my coworkers. I see few of them read more than magazines, and they talk mostly of television shows and, in whispers, other people, whom they somehow pity without compassion. Patrons, to some of them, are just people who keep them from doing their jobs.

Neil said "Hey" to me as he passed to the printer. I said, "Hello." Meg came near to place a discharged book on a cart adjacent to mine. "Hello," I said to her and smiled. I know what my smile looks like, so I said to her reaction, "I will not bite you." Neil's explosive laugh turned every head but mine. I hoped he was not laughing at me. (He assured me otherwise later. He had thought I had made a joke at Meg's expense.) No one else laughed. I could not read Meg's wide-eyed look at Neil over my head. She covered herself with a nervous giggle and served up one of those niceties with a question mark that has an answer no one listens to, so I did not answer it. May was not back there but on the circulation desk out front.

I am mostly sure that I want May to have read the blog, because I am mostly sure that she needs to know how I feel about her. Perhaps because I have not written much about her she could have already read my words and not have understood how I feel. I hardly understand myself. I do not know her any better than I know any other woman there, yet I am drawn to her by a mysterious fascination. Is that all that love is?

Neil has not been much help. He has never been sure himself, even after all those words he has written, if he was, is, or has been in love with May. He seems to spiral ever deeper into his head looking for his heart, whereas I seem to be going the other way around.

It seems to matter less each day what others think of me. I am tired of hiding what I am even if I don't know what that is, because I have been, perhaps, hiding it from myself as well. If my smile frightens, listen to my voice. If my voice startles, listen to my words. Listen to me. Talk to me. I need friends.