One week and a day ago, I entered my local library, thrilled with the anticipation of finding a new graphic novel through which to whimsically muse. Instead, I left shredded, although I must admit, I was not sure by whose hand.

Familiar echoes of moving chairs and murmurs welcomed me. I approached two librarians sitting behind the front desk for help. They both made eye contact and greeted me with smiles. However, lamentably, I focused my attention only on the younger one. I felt guilty about that choice since it could have come across as ageism. Perhaps I should have thanked the older one for trying, but I didn’t. She stood and walked away. I recognized the one that I engaged with immediately because I was present when a friend had previously invited her to a reading group we participated in. Before I could ask her where the graphic novels were located, she said, "I'll join you guys someday, promise," and jokingly covered her face with both hands. She then pointed to a collection of orange-labeled books behind her, surrounded by empty metal shelves, and gestured to the second floor of the library.

"Do you see that fisheye mirror?" she pointed. "The YA graphic novels are over there."

"How cool!" I gave her a thumbs up.

The section behind her was larger than I anticipated, but I didn't find anything that piqued my interest. I then climbed a set of wooden stairs toward the second level. To my surprise, this section of orange-labeled books was three to four times larger than the one on the first floor. I smiled and nodded as I flipped through dozens of matte, satin, and gloss-coated illustrations of war and lust on the shelves.

A book cover with a weary armored ronin grabbed my attention, although I didn't settle on any book to borrow. I considered complimenting the librarian on the extensive collection, thinking it might encourage her team to expand it. However, when I returned downstairs, I realized I was too tired to engage in conversation, so I waved at the librarian who had assisted me and muttered, "Bye." That was a mistake. I learned immediately the consequences of misreading a room.

As I was leaving, the other librarian's eyes narrowed. She adjusted her glasses, straightened herself up, and remarked, "Why did you only wave and say bye to her? What about me?" She pointed to herself. I thought to myself that I had waved at the first librarian because she had directed me to the books. I remembered the second librarian tried to assist, but the first librarian took the lead.

I wondered if she was joking until she warned, "Next time I see you here on Tuesday, just wait and see." See what, I wondered. Her bitterness was palpable. I jokingly escalated the matter, hoping she'd see the absurdity of the conversation. I said, "Does this mean we are enemies now?" She didn't see the absurdity. I miscalculated her disgruntlement. She paused and responded with a straight face, "Well, you started it." She pressed her lips. The first librarian raised her hands in a gesture of innocence, as if to say she wasn't involved. I thought to myself, of course, you aren't. This has nothing to do with you.

Feeling a mix of amusement and confusion, I shrugged and left the library, wondering what had just happened and nervous about how she would retaliate the following week. At this moment, I got flashbacks of seeing her at the library dozens of times in the past, quietly doing her job, and me barely interacting with her as a result, but having small interactions with others who seemed more lively. Come to think of it, I imagine what happened is that I need to be more aware of spreading my love and attention more evenly. Even to those that I think aren’t paying attention. The calming scent of trees and shrubs by the exit provided a sharp contrast to the turmoil I left behind.

A week later, I returned to the library. Before entering, I popped a blood orange chocolate ball into my mouth to sweeten the librarian's blows. I hoped I could avoid her but knew I couldn't because, as karma would have it, days earlier I found the perfect graphic novel online but when I tried to borrow it, I discovered that my library card had expired. Whether this was a case of misfortune or sabotage, I'd find out very soon.

My first steps into the library felt heavy with the weight of emotional armor. But I may have wasted my time putting it on because the front desk was empty. "Maybe she's taking a long break," I wondered, relieved. As I entered the room where I was supposed to meet my friends for our reading group, the room and table we've reserved for a year now, I noticed that the nemesis-librarian was sitting at our table with two other people. She'd declared war! So I thought.

The woman with her asked me,

"Are you using this room?"

"It's okay. We can go somewhere else," I said in deference and waved a friendly hello to the librarian.

My attempt at offering an olive branch. Before I could get up, my nemesis said, "He has an exclusive and dedicated reading group here." She looked up. "Let's go somewhere else." "We'd love to have you join," I said. A second olive branch. She opened her mouth slightly as if to speak and closed it. They got up and left. A scent of gardenia lingered moments after they'd gone. I stood there, arms folded, in disbelief.

My surprise was intensified several minutes later when, with a bit of embarrassment, I handed her my slightly sticky library card. It had been so long since I used it that I couldn't remember how it got so dirty. Still, she renewed it without any hesitation, only wondering why I hadn't come sooner. I was wrong and felt guilty for doubting her professionalism. She wasn't planning to unintentionally drop a bookcase on me in response to my faux pas from last week. She'd either moved on, like a mature adult (unlike me at times) or forgotten. It's even possible she has a twisted sense of humor and, along with her co-worker, laughed at my reaction when I left last week. Who knows?

Still, having learned my lesson from seven days ago to spread my love and attention evenly, this time I thanked her and said goodbye to both her and her workmate, and scanned the area carefully for anyone else in need of love, as I left. The smiles on both their faces led me to remove my armor. "Excuse me," she said. I turned. "Do you have space for one more person in your reading group? She told me you invited her weeks ago." The woman playfully poked her coworker. "But you didn't ask me. I may look shy and quiet, but I am not." The younger librarian shook her head in agreement. I considered explaining that I never imagined librarians could join our reading group and that it was my friend who approached the other librarian with an invitation but refrained and decided to cut to the chase and go straight to my apology. "I messed up, sorry. It would be an honor to have your brain join us," I curtsied. She chuckled. "See you next week," she said and waved. We might be friends soon, thank goodness. I could finally go home in peace, borrow the graphic novel I'd been on the edge of my seat for, and whimsically dally through it as planned a week ago, leaving no page unturned.