Unopened books cover the battered desktop. The stacks are strangely silent, the basement air fusty and inert. Oliver can’t concentrate. He thinks of Bernadette, her silken hair, her easy smile. Oliver was smitten with her from the instant he met her. He loved her confident laugh, her melodic voice, and the soft look in her eye when she applauded a child’s scribbles. He’d never known a more good-hearted person. The library is without windows. He wonders if the sun has set. If he pays attention, he can hear the dull drone of the city outside: traffic grinding, street vendors mongering, sidewalks straining under the weight of pedestrians. The trees in Washington Square Park have begun to turn, but just barely, the deep summer green yielding to an amber tinge. Oliver has always thought autumn New York’s best season, with its crisp air and splashes of color, but this year it feels like a harbinger. In the three weeks since Labor Day, Oliver has spent long hours in the library doing little.
