When I Found Myself Being Observed
I love public libraries.
The decades-old dust collections and intoxicating ink on old, rotting papers form a tranquil atmosphere.
Perhaps, I love the idea of being surrounded by enormous amounts of knowledge and it helps me to ground myself in the present moment.
But the biggest reason for my love for libraries — just like for public transit — is that I can observe other people while doing my work.
I like to notice small, insignificant events. A young fellow in a bright orange toque across the room wraps a brown napkin around his mug to take a quiet slurp. An elderly lady in a black winter coat ghostly moves between the shelves in search of next capturing romance novel. My favorite observation is of students that come to the library to study: we share an unspoken code of ethics — we all know why we are here and we respect the peace and quiet we all came to the library for.
On some days my observing hobby is bound to be interrupted, like by a middle-aged clumsy man, dressed in a fedora and a creamy white dress shirt, stained with the coffee he carries in his navy mug.
Today I am interrupted by a young boy, 2–3 years old, whose amber ellipses from the other side of the table unexpectedly meet mine.
Now I — the observer — find myself being observed.
His piercing, curious gaze from underneath the table sends light shrills though my body. Suddenly, I become very conscious of my moves, but I dare not to break the eye contact. The game of mutual observations creates an invisible bond between us, but I know that this young boy is more interested in the fries I am eating than in my subconscious behavior adjustments. He begins to slide closer. His amber ellipses are locked on my fries, and I begin wondering what he will do when he gets near.
Will he reach for some?
He is probably wondering the same thing. His moves are slow, contemplating, but brave and certain. I find his attention intriguing. He seems to be captivated by my fries and continues to slide closer, until he finally gets to my side and stands at arm-length. And he stands still.
What he sees is a pile of pale cold fries; what I see is a whole universe, young and full of curiosity. Before I get to see his decision, his mother fetches him from underneath my gaze and hurries him into the snowstorm outside.
