I entered my office, glanced at the walls—yep, still the same boring light beige they’d been fifteen minutes ago—and sat at my desk. But before I went back to updating the library’s magazine subscriptions, I pulled out my phone and started texting.

Minnie: Suddenly afraid.

Rafe: Of what

Minnie: Everything. But mostly that someday you’ll stop loving me.

Rafe: Be not afraid. If that hasn’t happened in the last 20-some years, it won’t ever.

Minnie (after a pause to wipe her suddenly teary eyes): I love you.

Rafe: Took you long enough

This, as he’d surely intended, made me laugh. I sent one more text, telling him that I’d pick up dinner on the way home that night, and turned my attention to my job.

*   *   *

At half past noon, my stomach let me know that it was time for lunch. A millisecond later, my brain let me know that I’d forgotten to pack any food. This gave me the options of: go hungry (not a chance), eat from the library’s vending machine (see previous answer), walk home and make my own lunch, or walk downtown and buy a lunch someone else made for me.

Since both of the viable options involved walking, I slipped off my library shoes, pulled on my light boots and coat, and headed out. When I’d arrived in the morning, it had been dark outside and in, but now the building was bright with light from overhead fixtures and bits of scattered sunshine that were trickling in through the windows. I walked through the library, its beauty calming me as it always did when I took the time to look about me.

When I’d been hired as assistant director, the library had been a sixties-ish–era building of high functionality but zero charm. Happily, the voters had chosen to fund the renovation of an empty two-story school building into the glorious space we now occupied.

I smiled at it all. At the lovingly restored oak woodwork that outlined the ceiling, windows, doors, and floors. At the shiny metallic tile surrounding the drinking fountains. At the tall windows of the former gymnasium that shone soft light onto the main book stacks. And at my favorite place, the reading room, with its upholstered chairs, window seats, and working fireplace.

It was tempting to skip lunch and instead spend an hour with a book in front of the fire, but I’d promised my mother—via an e-mailed New Year’s resolution for accountability—that I’d start eating like an adult and not a college student. After checking with my coworkers for any lunch order pickups I could do, I zipped my coat and headed out.