In our neatly rowed patterns of library activity, comes a young Asian lady, comfortably dressed, heads for an easy chair in the furthest corner of the stacks, sits down, covers up with her coat and sleeps. Every Monday when we open. Now Monday and Tuesday.
Who is she?
Why does she sleep here in the morning?
This is an elite neighborhood, not reached by public transportation. At other libraries she would have sisters and cousins whom she reckons by the dozens, but not in our upscale demography.
And so we wonder? Illness? Overnight job? Estrangement? Heartbreak? We wonder.
A fly in our vichyssoise.
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