As it turns out, it’s quite easy to keep from worrying about the fact that my father could be getting blonde-bombshelled as I re-shelve books, because I spend my time worrying about Toby and me instead. Now that Alexa has noticed he’s acting weird too, it’s hard to keep denying the fact that things aren’t like they used to be between us. He just seems so preoccupied lately. We used to do heaps of things together, but these days he’s always running off somewhere. He’s always busy on weekends. And what’s with all the text messages and the phone calls? Hmmm. I look across to the aisle beside me, over the top of the beat-up metal trolley holding yet another stack of books for us to push back on the shelves. (Undergraduate students are so annoying. Why do they need to take out so many books? And if they don’t want them, why can’t they put them back where they found them rather than leave them lying around on the numerous study tables? Wow. I think this job is ageing me. I’m becoming a ‘have you tidied your pigsty of a room yet?’ nagging parent …) Beyond the trolley is Toby.
