As three o’clock neared, I sat down at a nearby table with a tortuous Faulkner novel that I wasn’t sure should be checked out because I couldn’t foresee myself being able to actually read it. I was dark dim damaged distressedly depressed enough.
Promptly at three, Mrs. Warren, dressed in a light pantsuit and sunglasses, made an appearance.
I stood, as gentlemen do.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good,” she said quietly.
She glanced over to the graphic novel section where Noah sat on the floor, engrossed in something or other.
“Would you like to sit and talk a bit?” I suggested.
She moved her chair so that she could watch Noah as she sat with me.