sharks and missing letters

Running all morning, back and forth to the desk. Pick up the pile of books, quick slide them onto shelves, back for more. Repeat, repeat, repeat. To the desk--swing open the cupboard door (try not to bang it closed) and snatch the books from the return. Flash a smile at the patrons, apologize for the wait, chat and grin while checking out their books. Back to the stacks--push books onto the shelves, even out the rows, clamp them between knees while stretching for that topmost row. Door opens--run back to the desk; can't leave the circulation librarian without backup! Write down the name, lead to the computer, type in the password (brief power trip is dizzying). Now out to the stacks, books in the crook of the arm, filling up chest and shoulders and everything possible.

Mid-shift, things are slowing down. Point out the public printer, wait for her to come back with the page and the coins. Cash register, fiasco as usual (some things will not change). Discover former classmate, speak about literature and editing and writing. Sit down with co-worker, learn the new system, and somehow remember it from similar memories. "I'm being replaced?" she asks, plaintive. No, the resounding answer comes, and gladness for all.

Patron at the desk, the innocuous one who seems middle of everything. Medium height, average eyes, face that could be easily made attractive with a smile but is resoundingly serious, mild fines, unremarkable choice of DVDs. Two things are standouts--the hair, almost Travoltan; and the tats, spiraling down from bared shoulders to wristbones. Take his items, note the dark wristband with white lettering. Matthew 25:40. (what else does it even say?) He counts money onto the counter--only half the fine, but all right for now. "I'm all set?" he asks. Nod, smile, thank. He looks up, face pointed straight forward, eyes still serious. Then back down, pushing the library card back into his wallet.

"Thank you, darlin’," he says, gathers up his DVDs, and exits.

Darlin’?

"Darling" would have been all wrong; "darling" would have sounded stuffy and pretentious and false. "Darling" in that mouth would have prompted doubling-over laughter, once he'd left.

But "darlin’"? Different, and somehow perfect. Not shockingly forward, but not shy either. Not an eye-winking, lip-biting, heart-fluttering flirtation . . . but bold and definite just the same. Not an old-man indiscretion, nor a young-man contrivance.

Dropped g changes it altogether. Dropped g forces the pause, rushes warm blood to the cheekbones. Dropped g elicits the shy smile, the private bubbling giggle. Dropped g makes all things rustic, familiar, safe, warm, inviting.

Just one little baby letter. And it makes all the difference.

Darlin’.