Always the Bridesmaid

Part VII

Tom. Older gentleman. Those are the second hardest to deal with, in the Librarian's opinion. It's not that their dreams are at all tumultuous; rather, it's more that the advice the books feed to him ring hollow—or worse, are stained with a lifetime elsewhere. A lifetime of regrets, sometimes. Mostly a lifetime of romance, of companionship, of the sort of loneliness one knows only when they've experienced long years in the comfort of other people. Millions of minutes, stacked on top of each other, that the Librarian will never experience.

Yes, the Librarian gets jealous. He gets jealous often. He never admits it. It's not professional to do so, and he's nothing if not professional in these situations. But talking to someone who's older always takes a moment of thought, and even after that moment, the Librarian can't help but let his voice grow tight and edged with cold. He regrets it afterwards, of course, but no matter how many times he scolds himself in the silence between patrons, the ice still edges back into his voice at times like this.

It probably doesn't help that they're always here for things far less interesting than the dramas of the younger patrons. Oh, there's drama in what weighs on elderly minds. Sometimes, it's the constant shadow of death over their lives. Sometimes, it's a quarrel that split a rift between themselves and their children years ago. Sometimes it's even childlike rivalries between the bored, or the cautious flames of passion between widows in their twilight years. But it's nothing, in the Librarian's opinion, compared to the fires that tear through the young, the angst and confusion that brings them to his claustrophobic archives.

And then there's Tom. The Librarian reads his book in silence, and Tom sits across the way, gray and patient and face drawn in. He's lonely, the Librarian knows. A love whose death too many years ago still eats at his mind and a son who's there but not always really there. He's withdrawn into his hobbies, the book says. He needs to talk, the book says. Tell him to talk.

Only it doesn't quite say that. The Librarian reads between the lines, really. It actually talks about chrysanthemums along the garden path just outside his window. The one that overlooks the community pond where one Della Somethingorother walks every day. She doesn't look like Violet—not in the slightest—but Tom still notices the way the creases along her eyes make them shine.

The Librarian sets his book down and crosses his hands over it.

"So," the Librarian says, "you paint."

Tom lifts his eyes. They're tired and clear as the bottom of an icy lake. Not at all like Della's, most likely.

"Yes, sir?" Tom says. It's an inquiry, not a reply.

"The chrysanthemums are in bloom this time of year," the Librarian says. "Have you considered plein air?"

"Plein air?"

"Of course." The Librarian waves a hand in the air, almost dismissively. "Watercolors in the open. I would suggest setting up by the community pond."

Tom's eyes flicker. It's not exactly confusion that the Librarian sees. Rather . . . uncertainty. There are excuses lying in wait behind those eyes. A million "I can't"s born from being too old, being too broken, being too much of a doddering fool for anyone to look at him that way.

And that sparks a fire in the Librarian. As if Tom knew the first thing about being too anything at all for anyone to look at him in any way he wished. Tom remembers a lifetime with Violet and children and friends that have come and gone. He's never really experienced the yawning emptiness that comes from knowing one is genuinely, truly alone—from knowing that a person, even in youth, could lie down and die, and no one would really notice. And furthermore—