Quiet Time

By Carla Rudy

The quiet hum of the library is pierced by an odd sound. An intermittent ‘fshhht’ in an irregular pattern.

A woman sits at a table, surrounded by everything she owns. She peels crumpled-up tinfoil away from an ancient sandwich and spritzes it with cooking spray. She bites, swallows, peels away more of the foil, and spritzes again.

The sandwich is dry. The spray is buttery and moist. She can almost recapture the taste of a childhood cheese toastie, warm and melty, the bread perfectly crisp.

Her reverie breaks when she hears the inevitable, “Ma’am, you can’t do that in the library.”