Anna Meshcherova

On a quiet Thursday evening, she found herself wandering back to the familiar confines of the neighborhood library, looking for that book on the theory of cycles. Engaged in a mental game of spotting patterns everywhere, she felt compelled to find an explanation for life’s curious repetitiveness.

The moon performed its monthly ritual, she thought, waxing to fullness before waning into shadow. The balance in her mutual funds rose and fell in a somewhat predictable rhythm. Moments of intimacy with her ex alternated with stretches of solitude. Her menstrual cycle came with clockwork precision every twenty-nine days, a cycle as natural and inevitable as the ocean’s undertow. She pondered the precision of the Earth’s rotation, the coastlines embraced by high and low tides every twenty four hours or so. These were cycles as ancient as the planet itself, a relentless, dizzying merry-go-round. It was as if time were an illusion, and all what existed was oscillation, rhythmic breathing, expansion giving way to contraction.

That Thursday evening, nestled in a reading nook under the soft glow of a dim table lamp, Florence found herself utterly engrossed in a fresh copy of History of Cycles–a book written by a local professor Karl Moulin. Karl, it turns out, was a maestro at knitting together all sorts of cyclical examples that you’d never think would go together. And judging by how stiff the book’s spine was, she was the first to crack it open. Her eyes darted across the pages in a frantic zigzag, trying to connect the dots, to grasp the underlying reasons behind the endless repetition of everything everywhere. Gradually, her lips’ silent movements turned into a hushed whisper. The financial crisis starts off with an expansion phase where production grows, prices are high, and interest rates are low; then a crisis phase follows with a stock market crash and many companies going bankrupt; this is followed by a recession phase where prices drop, but interest rates rise…

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind, but she was too engrossed to look up. “Excuse me,” the voice insisted, louder this time. She turned. Across the room in a distant corner, a man, contorted in his chair, gave her a disapproving shake of his head, one eyebrow quirkily arched. Heavy-framed reading glasses, white shirt. Slim in a cartoonish manner, as though a stick man leapt from a graffiti wall directly into her world of patterns. French? He whispered loudly that he was trying to read and that it was a library and that reading out loud was not permitted and that he would prefer if she could lower her voice or just… leave. 

Leave? She whispered with a volume back, but no response came; he had already turned away, the back of his head swaying as a slow metronome. Someone held the door open, helping an elderly Abenaki man with a cane into the library’s warmth. A gust of cold November air swept in, swirling around her bare ankles. Suddenly she remembered something, got up, collected her books, and stepped out into the night.

Only fifteen minutes before the grocery store would close. She promised Juliette, her elderly neighbor, to bring over milk and English muffins before nightfall. Juliette, whom she affectionately called Jules, was well into her eighties and had become a forgetful hypochondriac, apprehensive about venturing outdoors for fear of a fall that might fracture her bones. And quite understandably, if it weren’t for the sidewalks’ icy veneer, one could very easily suffer a fall while navigating the descent from one of those twisted iron staircases that snake down town’s duplexes. Florence was fully aware of how much Jules depended on her, but her reasons for helping went beyond mere obligation. Jules had been a dear friend to her late mother–a kind soul who had cared for Florence as a baby and lent a helping hand around the house years ago. To Jules, she was always Flo, her name affectionately pronounced with a high-pitched German accent.

Florence managed to secure the milk and muffins just as the store was about to close. The cashier swiftly processed her purchase with an anxious glance, keys jingling, eager to end the day. It struck Florence as funny. Just a few days before, she had been the impatient one, waiting for the same store to open so she could buy fresh croissants for her team. Once outside, she hastened two blocks north to the duplex she shared with Jules—Jules above, Florence below. She was about to knock but paused abruptly. Her eyes caught a yellow note taped beside the door handle. Flo, door unlocked, let yourself in. 

Florence nudged the door open and stepped into the dimly lit hallway that carried the smell of aged carpet and cat litter. Jules! she called out. It’s me. From the shadows, a hefty Siberian cat, lord of its domain, sauntered out, stretching leisurely. The muffled buzz of news playing on the TV drifted from the kitchen. The apartment, bereft of any direct lighting, bathed in the soft luminescence of antique table lamps. In their light, dust particles swirled unhurriedly, a dissolute glow dissipating over the array of memorabilia scattered around. Jules! I’ve brought milk and muffins!

After a brief silence, Jules’s voice echoed off the cool ceramic tiles of the bathroom. She said she’d decided to take a bath by candlelight, a choice she now vocally regretted as foolhardy. She fretted over the possibility of the candles toppling and starting a fire, or worse, the chance of slipping on the bathtub’s floor and breaking her hip. Instead, she decided to remain in the bath, awaiting Flo’s arrival. 

Florence, now standing at the bathroom entrance, still wearing her winter coat, couldn’t suppress a smile at Jules’s theatrical quandary. An aging but beautiful canvas of vulnerability beneath the froth of soap and water. 

Would you give my back a scrab? asked Jules. 

With a silent nod, Florence removed her coat and, like an acolyte before the altar, knelt down. She submerged the sponge in the lukewarm water and looked up: Why Jules, what a splendid idea it was. Bath by candlelight. Their eyes met in a shared smile, the bathroom filled with the warmth and mischief typically exchanged between a doting mother and her impish child.

This wasn’t out of the ordinary at all. Florence had grown accustomed to attending to Jules’s whims. Whether it was warming a glass of milk before bed, adjusting the TV volume, or searching for the channel that played Jury Duty, these tasks had become routine.

One day, while Florence was trimming Jules’s rigid nails, Jules inquired in her sweet, ringing, German-accented voice, “What is it with you, Flo? Isn’t it time you found yourself a boyfriend?” 

Florence’s reply was soft but firm, “I’d had a boyfriend! We were together for two years.” 

With a dismissive flutter of her hand, Jules retorted, “Oh, but that was eons ago.”

“Not at all,” Florence countered, “It was only two years ago that we parted ways.”

But Jules, unfazed, already started to lament the fleeting nature of modern love and reminisced about a time when relationships were built to last. Florence chuckled quietly to herself, thinking of Jules’s own romantic history—a carousel of lovers she had never managed to leave behind. Yet, Florence held her tongue, reached for a timeworn nail file, and started filing down the jagged edges of Jules’ yellow nails. Immersed in the task, Florence’s thoughts drifted to halcyon days: when Jules would whisk her away on bicycle adventures, or stroll through the farmer’s market together, or offer a shoulder to cry on after Florence’s very first heartbreak.

Beyond the whims of Jules’s fanciful nature, Florence’s life swung between her work, the structured world of banking, and the countless hours spent within the library’s walls. The safe haven where she could at last lose herself in dubious theories, distant universes, and the lives of fictional characters whom she often referred to as real friends.

The day had arrived for Florence to return her book on the history of cycles, and she found herself wrapped in a reflective, somber mood. The concepts within the pages had fallen short of answering her questions. Why did things repeat themselves? Was time merely an illusion? A snake biting its own tale? A continuous, ferocious drama of worldly events, deaths and rebirths devoid of any meaning. 

With a sigh, she decided to shift gears. I might as well get a book on gardening this time around. Or the history of Christmas, perhaps? she thought. The discourse on cycles had grown wearisome, dulling her interest to the point of ennui. With Karl Moulin’s book firmly tucked under her arm, she stepped into the library, ready to exchange it for something more jolly, more earthly, perhaps even festive. 

After dropping Moulin’s volume to the return bin, she meandered through the adult nonfiction aisle where a modest array of colorful spines leaned on each other forlornly. Grabbing a few without much thought, she headed for the reading room, only to find it eerily still, save for a few readers. There was a lone man in the far corner, and a couple who sat on the floor, back to back, each lost in their own book, though he occasionally paused to twirl his fingers through her curls. Choosing a window sill with a pillow as her nook, Florence settled in. 

She gazed out at the first December snowflakes swaying leisurely in the evening haze, pedestrians hastened along, collars turned skyward against the chill. Inside, Florence felt grateful for the warmth of the library. She picked up a book, curious about its title: “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat.” Huh? She opened it to a random page and started to read: Anterograde amnesia, which is the loss of the ability to form new memories, but an obtrusively loud chewing noise from behind shattered her concentration. Turning, she looked at the man’s back, huddled over a table, noisily eating a sandwich, the aluminum foil crinkling with each bite. Florence felt a mix of annoyance and disbelief. Eating in the library was against the rules. The sound of chewing grew louder, and then, with a boldness that left her astounded, the man cracked open a can of San Pellegrino. 

“The nerve,” she seethed. Despite her efforts, Florence found the distraction too much to bear, her focus on the book was completely disrupted. As he took an obnoxiously loud gulp of his soda, she stood up and walked towards him, compelled to confront the rule-breaker.

“Excuse me,” she started, trying to keep her voice even. “Excuse me,” she said again, a bit louder this time. “You’re not supposed to eat in here…” He turned slowly, their eyes met. Heavy-framed reading glasses, off-white shirt, slender, tall. Oh my, she thought, it’s him, the Frenchman from before, now the perpetrator of the disturbance. Caught mid-chew, he stared at her, then the seriousness on his face turned into a wide grin. The irony of their situation was not lost on them. Laughter erupted from both, uncontrollable and genuine. The couple on the floor paused their reading to observe the commotion, curious smiles on their faces. As the laughter died down, the Frenchman extended an invitation, pulling out a chair for Florence. Reluctantly, she agreed to join.

“Florence,” she introduced herself, extending her hand. 

“Karl,” he took her hand in his and smiled. “Karl Moulin.”