All day, up in our eyrie, we had looked out on white-out mist forming, dispersing, reforming, and on periods of spitting rain aslant the windows. As night fell, I walked to the West End library down rain-glistening Cambridge Street. The fronts of my trousers got wet in the short journey but still it was a pleasure to walk in the rain.
In the library, I found an empty table in the back and prepared to enjoy some pleasant work. One table over, a man with a stubbled chin was taking off his sneakers and tucking them under a chair. He gave me a 'What are you looking at?' glare as he shook water from his jacket and checked the interior of his backpack. For him the library was a refuge.
As I got set to work, the library security guard walked by and told the man to put his shoes on. 'There're wet,' said the patron. 'I don't care. You can't take off your shoes here,' replied the guard. There was a brief exchange where the patron complained about the impolite way people were being treated and accused the guard of not knowing his job. 'I know my job,' the guard stated affectless.
Shoes on, the man soon left. But I thought: I know the squishy and unpleasant feel of wet shoes. There are some who on days like this must feel welcome nowhere, and nowhere to dry out their cold, clammy feet. My town is full of great places that want to have me like this quiet library with good working surfaces and free Wifi; how much different your town, I thought
As I left, an alarm went off but the guard sent me out with dismissive wave of the hand.
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