3.30 p.m., January 31, 2011Remy
was far from the most literate person on the planet. The most he'd ever read was what he'd been assigned in school, and (in his adult life) any requisite reading to learn how to better do his job. Books were generally beyond his mental capacity, and since he'd outgrown the Young Adult section (he felt like a creeper, being 34 and hanging around the section designed for teenagers), he'd generally avoided the library. But he knew that the library was a place to go if you had a question you needed answering, and that was why he found himself perusing the nonfiction section.
With the thought of his looming marriage hovering over his head, he figured it was high time he read up on how women worked -- his knowledge of what it meant to be in any sort of relationship was very, very scarce. He'd never been in a serious one -- heavens, he had never even progressed beyond kissing someone. Of course, he'd no idea what he was even looking for -- why in the world was the nonfiction section organized by numbers?
-- so he very shyly asked someone at the help desk to point him in the direction of the marriage books. All the good that had done him was put him in the right place; he didn't know which book was the right one. So he grabbed three or four of them, piling them into his arms and seeking out a table to sit at (he didn't have a library card, mostly because he didn't come here often enough to warrant one) and get to reading.
As soon as he saw the tables, though, he saw that they were all mostly full -- there wasn't a single empty one in sight. Fortunately, though, he approached one that was empty except for a single occupant. He hugged the books to his chest, a little embarrassed at their subject matter, but he needed a place to sit regardless. He approached one of the empty chairs, looking at the table's current occupant. "Hi," he said, keeping his voice quiet -- it was a library, after all. "Is anybody sitting here? Is it alright if I sit down?" he asked.