There was a book at the library called A Dictionary of Angels. No one had opened it in what must have been 20 years. It wasn’t that Aria believed in angels. She opened its inelastic pages simply to give herself the feeling of them. She imagined them sitting in the rafters of that voiceless place, being carried to where they wanted to go not by wings, but by the shafts of sunlight coming through the windows. She imagined the room to be heavy with them, watching and championing the people who had buried themselves in the whispers of the books on the shelves.

Being at the library afforded Aria the opportunity to feel like she was a normal person in society again, less like a castaway. She spent most of her time there thumbing through books that looked like they had been forgotten. There was something virginal about them. Perhaps she felt compelled to give them company because they were forsaken, much like herself.

With the remainder of her time, Aria reviewed the cookbooks and looked up on the public computers some local resources catering to people in her position. Each cookbook offered an artistic pilgrimage into the world of the chef who had created it. And, like the thorough recipes they contained, each one presented a different flavor. So far, her computer searches had proven to be time well spent. She was able to locate a sober living home and ask the manager there if they had any shoes left over from the clothing donations they received, which the residents might not want. Once the manager had sized her up and established that she didn’t present any threat, she was left there to look through the pile. She pretended to try on a few pairs before pulling the shoelace on a pair of tennis shoes clean of its eyelets. She stuffed it in her jacket pocket before telling the manager that there was nothing that fit her in the pile. She tuned him out when he proceeded to give her a list of alternative suggestions for where she might find some shoes.

Aria was attached to her All Star sneakers. She felt down to earth and classic in them. When she looked at them, she could sometimes hear the song Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel playing somewhere in the recesses of her mind. It seemed to her that this new way of living was demanding that she give away every principle she possessed for the sake of basic survival, most especially her principles of good taste. Those high-top sneakers were a form of self-preservation. The one standard she could keep, when all others had to be surrendered.