The first time I worked out of the library’s large bay windowed room, a mechanic of some kind in a green shirt sat across from me at one of the communal tables, greased hands reviewing receipts beside an older laptop.
A Jimi Hendrix ringtone pulls him out into the parking lot twice. When he returned to his chair the second time, I noticed a chameleon on his shoulder, gripping onto his chain necklace and t-shirt. Had it been there the entire time, I wondered, this emotional support reptile. Or was it waiting in the car? Or did he share it with an ex, the library’s parking the neutral site of their emotional hostage exchange?
The two of them seemed to have a real kinship, and not just because of the shared guise of shirt and scale.