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So very much has happened in the last week or so that the normalcy of settling into her seat at her information desk seems…rather abnormal, to be honest. The library is full of the usual quiet hubbub: the shiff and whuft of books moved and pages turned, the soft conversations at respectful volumes, the squeak of the various book carts moving about the shelves in aid to other staff members returning titles to their homes. Rosemarie stares down at the open space, somewhat at her cuticles, and considers them with a little and pensive frown.
The Otherness bubbles briefly through her psyche, imparting a sudden need to fly — both figuratively and literally — from the impending chance of boredom. She scrowls and indulges in averting the phantom itch behind one ear before pulling over the stack of newly-organized applications for library cards. She'll organize them, check for blank sections, contact anyone as needed, and then gather up the correct papers in order to assign numbers to them. Nothing new, nothing stressful…but still, somehow…boring.
Still, there's something in the back of her mind, some little reminder of herself about this shift…or was it about someone? Her eyes stray over towards the back of the library, towards the Archival offices, home of Bart(tholomew), manager and lord of all books old or rare enough to be considered treasures. Maybe it had something to do with Bart. Maybe?
*
This is the big time for Lindon. Central Library. His first day, and he's already established himself as someone who keeps quiet and does his job without getting in anyone's way. He's back with the old books. Not the really old books, not the good stuff, but there's that middling sweet spot between rare treasures and books the plebians get to touch. That's what he's working on today.
There are some who might consider him good-looking if tall and thin are their thing. He's got a rather intense dark gaze, alas focused upon his work. The new guy, kind of weird. But he seems harmless. No reason for any Otherness to take note, surely.
*
The muted tappity-tapping of the pencil's eraser on the desk might be construed as annoying if it continues any longer than it does. She's looked over the form for possibly the fourth time, reading but not processing. Her mind is clearly elsewhere and she keeps up the fairly quick beat of the rubber on wooden desk.
Then it pauses, her body momentarily stilling in realization. Oh yeah, the new guy. The transfer. A sly ascertaining of the front desk proves that the head librarian isn't around to see her sneak off and this she does, setting the writing utensil aside.
Back to the very back of the library, where the older publishings are kept and guarded from a distance from anyone without respect. Pausing at the end of a shelf, Rosemarie keeps one palm against the vertical edge of the wood as she stands and watches the new transfer go about his business. She's observing him at a slightly oblique angle, enough that he'll note her in his peripheral if his brain reminds him that someone is standing there. She's not a scary thing at all in her pencil skirt and white blouse, but she is suddenly there for someone not paying half attention.
*
He handles the books with practiced care. New to the branch but not the gig. There's reverence in the way he works. There is a small stack in his work area, a set of genuine 19th Century books on homesteading in post-war Virginia, all recipes and how-tos and anecdotes gathered by some small-town newspaper and eventually put into print. These copies are virtually untouched. He assesses each in turn, and he makes his notes. Quite the find.
Eventually, he realizes the person in his periphery isn't moving on. A few people have come by to say hello to him so far today. They've reported he's a little odd but seems nice. Indeed, when he finally glances up to see who's there, he offers Rosemarie a reflexive smile. There's just a lingering awkwardness there. What comes after the smiling? Does he say something? Does he go back to his books?
*
Rosemarie recognizes at some level that this is a reactive emotional response, that somehow it's more politeness than true happiness to see her, and thus, her mirrored response is cajoling and controlled bubbliness. A grin, little wave of fingers as she lifts her touch from the side of the shelf, and she walks over with hands clasped before her waist.
"Hello, you must be the transfer. I'm Rosemarie," she adds, dimpling slightly. "Forgive me, I haven't heard anyone say your name yet."
And with that is the unspoken admission that they were gossiping about him, oh man.
*
Lindon's smile returns when the librarian comes over to introduce herself. But what doe she do? Shaking hands with women is strange, but she's a colleague, but she's a dame. He's done this before, and every single time it's weird to him. He starts to offer her his hand, then sees he's wearing cloth gloves (a little small) so as not to get oils on the books, and that gives him an easy answer. He reverses the gesture into a little wave. Can't touch hand, see. Oils.
"H-hi," he says. Oh god, they've been gossiping about him? Talking? With their words? "Lindon Mills," he says. "It's nice to meet you."
*
Gossiping with their words in the worst of manners, behind their heads and with titters to boot. It should be noted that Rosemarie, unless emotionally-imbalanced in a moment, does not titter. Nor does she care overmuch for gossip, but being work-friends with Diana of Gossip Central (a.k.a. the front desk) means hearing it all, one way or another.
This librarian returns the gloved wave once more, acknowledging through this that archival gloves must not get excessive grime on their outer layer to avoid staining delicate pages. "That's right, Lindon." No stutter for her; he seems sweet and innocent enough and there's immediate empathy for the little trip in words on his part. "Nice to meet you too. Welcome to this branch." Her friendly grin shows off the freckles in pert cheeks. "Looks like Bart already has you working hard." Her cinnamon-brown eyes flick to the collection of books within his care.
*
There are a few things worth tittering about, though. The awkwardness, the reasonable good looks (even if he could uuse a few meals), and the noticeable lack of a wedding ring. He's got to be in his thirties, so what's that about? Of course, he's just so shy, the poor man. He must not know how to meet women.
He looks to the books he's working on, and he says, "Oh, I wouldn't have it any other way. The moment I laid eyes on these, I just knew orientation was over." He picks up one of the books, considering it. "There are so many recipes for calves brains in here," he says with a quiet laugh.
*
"Calf brains, oh my," and the brunette laughs quietly. It's a proper laugh for the location, still bright while not carrying like a bell. A few steps closer bring her to his side while maintaining a professional amount of distance as not to infringe upon personal space. She tilts her head, eyeing the publication in his hand. "I always wonder at what made people so desperate as to eat calf brain. Starvation, I guess…" She shrugs, possibly having answered her own question. Her eyes rise to Lindon's face and she still wears that little smile, showing a sliver of teeth. "I've never tried it. Have you?"
*
Lindon shakes his head and says, "Oh, no." A pause, then, "Not anymore." There's a merry glint in his eyes, and his laugh is little more than a tremble in his voice. "Brains are all cholesterol." He pats his chest, over his heart. "The doctor said no more if I want to see forty."
He looks at the book he holds and says, "There was a very real threat of starvation, especially after the war. Heck, before the war times weren't great. "Working dawn til dusk, having as much fat in your diet as you could was an advantage." He's doing it again, isn't he. Talking about weird things. Being weird. He lowers his gaze and sets the book aside. "Uh, most of the recipes recommend, er, pan-frying."
*
Her expression shifts in mild disbelief, perhaps at the fact that Lindon is joking about eating brains — mind you, this stems from a recent run-in with a few brain-eaters of the worst sort. It gives her an air of perplexed amusement and her gaze shifts back to the book set aside. He's not wrong, this archivist, but still — indeed, weird. Bart's not much better though; the head archivist has a bizarre interest in UFOs.
"I'll keep in mind that pan-frying seems to be the best way to prepare them." She nibbles at the little scar on her lip for a passing moment before shifting back her shoulders. "Did you have any questions about the library as a whole? Where to find things or whom to call if something happens?" A much safer topic of conversation.
*
Lindon averts his gaze. He knows he's done it, alienated another person because he tried to joke. Ugh, this always happens. It's why he doesn't try to joke most of the time. "I don't mean that," he says, more awkward than ever. "I mean I did about the pan-frying, but…" He purses his lips and wills himself to stop talking.
He does manage to refrain from explaining that it's why most of the food in the South is fried — it could make anything taste good. Oh thank god, she asks about the library! "Oh! Ah, s-sure, who do I call if something happens?"
*
There we go, Rosemarie can tell that she's enticing him from that awkward silence floating around him with the sourness of spilled lemonade.
"It depends on what the circumstance is, but it's always a good idea to start by calling the front desk. Diana is up there quite a bit. She's the one with black hair and grey eyes, laughs a lot." It's Rosemarie's way of demurring that the young woman has some air pockets between her ears. "Diana will get Mrs. Ketch. You probably met her. She takes the rules very seriously." There's a hint of apology in the solemn delivery of this information. If Lindon hasn't met the raven-like Mrs. Ketch, he sure as hell will know when he does.
*
"Oh, right. Diana." Lindon half-smiles, weakly. Diana does laugh a lot. She also asks a lot of questions of eligible young men who know how to have conversations with women. She might even have been the one to declare him weird, thus (possibly) cursing him at his new location. Mrs. Ketch is safer territory Rules he can deal with. He nods as he listens. From the look of growing ease about him, he hasn't met her yet. Either that or he really is weird.
"And your're Rosemarie," he says. "Thank you. I might come bug you if I forget any of this."
*
"You're welcome." The curve of her lips is guileless. Honest appreciation is something that she…well, honestly appreciates in return. "I'm at the information desk over by the Sciences section. You'll see me every time you walk from the staff break room to the archival offices, if Bart ever needs to speak with you." She glances over her shoulder at a pair of co-eds walking by, but seeing as the two librarians aren't addressed, it's clear that the students needed no aid. "If you don't mind my asking, why did you transfer here?" Her attention is back on him, pert and prim and almost…bird-like.
*
Lindon glances toward the co-eds, then away. Working the desk has always seemed like punishment to him. "Why? Ah, well, you see, I had the opportunity to work exclusively in the archives, and even though I'm so good talking with people…" He shakes his head. There's that breath of laughter, and he says, "It's for the best. Besides, Queens doesn't get gems like these." He gestures to the books at his work station. He pauses, then adds, "Don't let my review turn you off the series. There's all sorts of gems to be found. Like how you should give black strap molasses to horses." He nods solemnly. Good stuff.
*
Tucking a loose strands of hair behind her ear, Rosemarie touches the tip of her tongue to her front teeth, seen for the slight parting of her lips. It's a staunched laugh, but it still manages to escape at the end for the shake of her shoulders and wisp of sound.
"Black strap molasses? That sounds like a terrible idea!" She leans in a little closer still, canting her head to one side to eye the book and then Lindon again. The next query has the essence of conspiratory comraderie in volume and tone: "What other terrible advice does it give?"
*
"It's actually rich in a lot of vitamins and minerals," Lindon says. "And it's more waste-not, want-not culture. After you extract all the sugar you can, give what's left to the livestock. Nothing gets wasted." Unlike today's culture, though he doesn't necessarily draw any moral comparison. After all, this is modern times, and that makes them automatically better. He looks at the book. "Hmm. It has some interesting things to say about brandy-as-medicine and opium to calm down the kids."
*
The lilting hum is friendly tease as is the smile hovering about her lips not quite revealed.
"I remember my grandmother talking about brandy in milk bottles. Oh, and whiskey on teething rags. It apparently kept my father's gums cool." Rosemarie isn't impressed by the logic, but hey, she's here, so apparently her father made it to adulthood. "Anything about the care of cats?" A pause and a little laugh — and the brush of a blush beneath her freckles. "I have a cat, Lola. I don't want to be doing anything accidentally wrong with her. I figure if it's in a book that old, it's probably an outdated theory."
*
Lindon clucks his tongue and says, "I'm afraid that, when it comes to cats, you're out of luck. At least as far as these old homesteaders go. Don't feed her onions or garlic, no chocolate, no grapes or raisins, no caffeine — in fact, avoid people-food altogether, and she'll be fine." He sets the book in his hand down, then idly tidies the stack. "I mean, other than that, it's a cat. They pretty much take care of themselves."
*
"Oh, absolutely," replies Rosemarie with an emphatic nod of agreement. "Other than dinner time and cuddling on the couch, she needs nothing more of me. She doesn't get people food…well, no, that's not right." An averted gaze accompanies the self-recriminatory smile and lingering light blush. "She does like cooked chicken, but only the white meat and not heavy on the herbs. I can't imagine that the tastes agree with her."
Lindon is inspected once more, from head to toes, before those cinnamon-brown eyes return to his face. "Still, I should let you be. I didn't mean to interrupt — just wanted to make sure that you knew a friendly face and where to go for help. Don't let Diana bother you too much, she means well." This is said in the manner of someone patient enough to deal with it regularly.
*
A friendly face? That brings a small smile to Lindon's lips. He hasn't completely blown it? "Thank you. Thanks. I appreciate it. It's always kind of intimidating being the new guy." At the mention of Diana, he bravely doesn't lose any skin color or outright flinch, though he does glance toward her work station as though mentioning the name might summon her. "She's all right. Everyone here is really nice."
And with his typical smoothness, he just… gets back to work. When in doubt, do what you know.