It was a Friday night at the beginning of May.
It was the first week after the holidays, and my senior thesis wasn't progressing the way I wanted, so I went to the library later than usual. I pulled two books from the physics section on the third floor, and as I headed for the exit, my feet stopped.
I was in front of the folklore studies section.
Someone was standing at the end of the shelves, on the side where the row of stacks ended and faced the wide aisle. The back of a thin beige cardigan was lifted slightly toward the shelf. She was on tiptoe, her heels barely off the floor, and a pale wrist showed from her sleeve. Her fingertips just managed to touch the lower edge of a cloth-bound spine on the second shelf from the top. She was trying to pull it out and couldn't.
It was Sakurai.
I stopped, then moved a single step closer. With her back still to me, she stretched her fingertips upward on tiptoe. She showed no sign of noticing me.
—Oh, shall I get that for you?
I tried to say it aloud, and nothing came. The words began to take shape at the back of my throat and stayed there. Instead, I reached up with my right hand. The pad of my finger touched the cloth-bound spine. It was cold. Right beside the cold was the faintest warmth. The warmth of fingers that weren't mine. On a single book rested two people's fingers.
"Oh." Whether the sound actually escaped or not, I couldn't be sure.
Almost at the same moment, we both drew our hands back. Sakurai lowered her heels and stepped half a pace aside.
I reached up with my right hand once more. When I drew it slowly toward me, the book dropped into my palm. The title ran vertically in an old typeface, half hidden under my hand, and I couldn't make out the top of it. Without reading it, I turned it over and held it out toward Sakurai.
With the back cover facing up, I shifted my grip to hold it level in both hands. I didn't meet her eyes. The edge of the book came to exactly the height in front of her chest.
Sakurai reached out with both hands, setting her right hand on the top edge and her left on the bottom. The sides of her fingers lined up just beside mine. The weight shifted slowly over to her.
Sakurai turned the book over once, then held it again in front of her chest with both hands, as if hugging it. The cover pressed against the front of her cardigan, her palms wrapped around the edges of the book. Then she leaned forward slightly and bowed her head, briefly, just once. Her lowered forehead tipped not toward me but toward the book held to her chest. For about three beats, she stayed there.
Her head was right around the height of my shoulder. The three beats were longer than I'd expected.
"I'm sorry. Well, I'll be going."
"No, I'm the one who should apologize."
I left the shelves. Going down the stairs, I found myself tracing the base of my right index finger with my thumb. No warmth remained.
—I could never remember the title of that book. I had turned it over and handed it to her with my palm still half covering the title. I thought I'd remember if I passed by those shelves again. I didn't.
One night, at nine-fifty, I stopped in front of the automatic door at the entrance. The door opened a moment late. As it moved, Sakurai, who seemed to have just gotten up from the reading seats, came up behind me on the same inner side of the door.
"It's almost closing time. Will you make it?"
Sakurai had spoken. It was a sentence just slightly longer than any I'd heard from her before. The end of it rose a little and soon fell. When I looked up, she was looking at me too. Our eyes met for only an instant, and hers dropped at once to somewhere around the cover of the book she held.
"Ah, yes. Just barely."
"I'm glad."
Sakurai gave a small nod and went out through the automatic door ahead of me. Right beside the chill of the night wind, the white at the cuff of her beige cardigan showed briefly once more.