Sardine man

Books laid flat across the table, she leafed through her scatter of notes and diagrams.

Running her fingers over the underlay of each page, she could feel where she’d pressed too hard and the words had sunk; ingrained in the paper.

The library was old and carried a thick scent of wooden floors and vanilla decay. The shelves were compact; each book sat neatly in its place, each page, each sentence, each word, bound and stitched.

Upstairs, was the reading room. The desks were heavy and oversized. Every day she sat in the back corner, mostly too preoccupied with her thoughts to study.

A month into her routine, she noticed a man with a similar schedule to her: he arrived at the same time each day and would sit at the same desk. Carrying a half-empty backpack, he wore a dark green jacket and tan leather shoes.

Adjusting his glasses, he’d place the backpack down, hang his coat on the chair and take out the same two items: a red, cloth-covered book and an unopened tin of sardines.

Sitting down on the domed leather chair, he would open the book and place one hand over the tin, which he held softly underneath his fingers as he read.

The girl watched.

His face crinkled with age, he looked peaceful and contemplative. When it finally came to closing time, he would place the two items back in his bag, re-adorn his coat and follow the exit signs.

Days passed, then weeks. The same regime. The girl found herself looking out for him – it was comforting to pass the time with such an intriguing yet gentle character. The peculiarity of his routine made her smile – perhaps, slightly disdainfully – but there was no malice.

It was then that something changed. Looking up one Tuesday afternoon, the girl saw the man arrive at his usual time, but his expression was different. His face was still filled with kindness, but his eyes spoke of sorrow. Bag decanted, coat hung, he lifted out his book and sat at his desk.

Eyes fixed, she waited for the man to bring out his tin. His hand remained empty as he stared at his book.

Withdrawing her attention, the girl looked back down, gripping onto her ink-stained pen.

It’s strange, she thought, the things you miss when they’re gone.