“The only thing that’s worth eating are the peanut butter sandwiches,” she said, tossing her dark brown hair over her shoulder. The large, white, plastic hoops that dangled from her ears swung with the arc of her hair. “Everything else is gross.”

The librarian, old enough to be her grandmother, chuckled.

“My cousins ask me to bring back sandwiches for them. I should charge them a quarter for a sandwich, make some money on the side,” she mused to herself. The accent in her voice suggested that she was from the Bronx. The kids from Manhattan don’t sound like that.

“How long will you be working here for?” the librarian asked.

“Just the summer. My mom told me to get a job,” she answered. She shifted her weight to her other leg. If she wasn’t at work, she would certainly have been more fashionably dressed. The white polo shirt with the hospital’s name embroidered over the left chest was too big for her frame. She was wearing “skinny” jeans and brightly colored flats on her feet. The gum in her mouth was light green and the polish on her fingernails was a dark orange-red.

“The sodas aren’t bad, either,” she continued. “I like to take a Dr. Pepper home when I can.”

She and I were both leaning against the countertop. She was paying a social visit to the librarian—they had some sort of relationship that was not based on books—and I was waiting for some papers.

I saw her looking at my white coat. She shifted her weight again and then asked, “Hey, what kind of doctor are you?”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” I answered.

“Really?” she asked. The tone in her voice suggested that she was curious, not guarded; her face suggested that she was bored. “I thought psychiatrists work in clinics and stuff.”

“Some do,” I answered. She popped the gum in her mouth. “I run around this hospital and see people with medical and surgical problems. Sometimes, their doctors think that their patients have psychiatric problems.”

… and, sometimes, their doctors are frustrated with their patients and hope that I can recommend a pill can make them behave the want they want them to. I left that part out.

“Oh, that’s cool,” she said. “How long have you been doing that for?”

“Just a few months,” I said.

“Oooh,” the librarian commented. “That’s very interesting.”

“How do you like working here?” I asked the girl.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s nice to be inside when it’s so hot outside. The money is okay. And I get a free lunch.”

“What time do you get off of work?” the librarian asked her.

“Two o’ clock,” she answered, looking wistfully at the clock. She still had about half an hour left.

“That’s not much time,” the librarian remarked.

“Yeah, I know. I’m glad I’m done, but it’s just so hot outside. And when I go home, I know my ma is going to give me a hard time about school and work and stuff,” she said. She looked at the clock again and concluded, “Well, I should probably go. I’ll come by again tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll be here,” the librarian said, smiling warmly at her.

“Nice to meet you,” the girl said to me. She looked at my coat again.

“Bye,” I said.

She lazily turned on her heel and her white earrings swung with her head. Shoulders pushed back and hair cascading down her back, she quietly exited the library and the door clicked shut behind her.