SALMA ELSAID

Between the Pages

Fluorescent lights shone down onto the rows of books, illuminating the darkness of the library. Lawrence loved working the night shift. Barely anyone was around so late at night, so he was able to simply sit and enjoy being in one of his favourite places. The atmosphere was calm, yet he could not keep his mind on work. His attempts to focus were futile; every time he honed his attention he could feel his focus slipping from him like sand falling through an hourglass. His thoughts jumped from topic to topic. One second he’d be thinking about his favourite chocolate, and the next he’d find himself daydreaming about the attractive man who had been coming into the library recently.

The library was fairly large and impressive. The room was circular, creating the effect of endless shelves. The shelves loomed high over the armchairs dotted around the room. There were a few large tables, usually occupied by students of the university. Each wall had several large windows with simple stained-glass designs. There was a smell of oak floating through the aisles, accompanied by a scent of black coffee and book pages. Lawrence thought that it was quite wonderful. He had been a student worker in the library for some months now. His job was quite easy, he just had to sit at the front desk and help people check out. He also helped with the cataloguing of the shelves; he found that he soon learnt where everything was by heart.

He tapped his foot on the floor, a rhythm emerging quickly. There was a certain tranquillity to the way his furious typing melded with the light tapping as he attempted to return to his work again. His book was not going to edit itself. It was a contemporary novel about a group of students and a fateful summer they’d spent abroad. For some months now, Lawrence had been trying to get his book picked up by publishers. And time and time again he was turned away. He had been trying to edit it in the hope that some publisher would find something worth saving in his writing. It often seemed that no one would ever see the real meaning behind his work, that no one else would ever really enjoy it. And maybe it wasn’t even that good anyway. Maybe he had just written a bad book that no one would read. Maybe it was all just a waste of time.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the creak of the door opening. Glancing over, he realised that the man who had walked in was Aaron Hawthorne. Aaron had caught Lawrence’s eye a few months ago when he had started coming into the library. He had been almost too friendly, but Lawrence hadn’t really noticed. He’d found this intellectual man so intriguing, like a puzzle he was trying to put together. The first time they met, Aaron had been searching for a book he’d needed for an essay. Lawrence ended up helping him find it, and that awkward first conversation was what had led to their current comfort with each other. Aaron had become almost enamoured of Lawrence. His awkward jokes, his snarky remarks, the little laughs that escaped him when he found something