Laura H

The last of the buggies was wedged into the lift just as Sunday packed the last of the instruments back into the box. The library always seemed at its quietest just after the babies and toddlers had left, and as she placed the last of the stickily fingered board books back on to the shelves and picked up a discarded rice cake, she felt a feeling of calm descend once again. She had an hour until the lunchtime rush and would most likely have no one in until then.

Monday had given her a huge list of books that needed finding and re-barcoding, a use of sexist language and such meaning that they needed to be moved to another section of the library. They had become old and outdated. This always made Sunday sad: when books were rejected for being old and out of time, rather than loved as products of their time. Sunday often felt out of time: still on the face of it, young and yet too old for this world somehow.