My name is Angela. I’m 28, single, and hopelessly addicted to the quiet escape of books. That’s why, three times a week, I slip into this little library tucked between a coffee shop and a dry cleaner on a side street in Lower Manhattan. It’s always half-empty — dusty shelves, soft lamplight, the faint smell of old paper and polished wood. I love it. No one bothers you here. Or so I thought.
That afternoon I was deep into a worn paperback when my bladder protested. I approached the circulation desk, smiling at the librarian — a severe woman in her fifties with silver hair pinned tight.
“Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”
She looked up slowly, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “Have you been here before?”
I laughed, thinking it was some quirky house rule. “Yeah, all the time. Why?”
“ID,
