So I wrote a big long pedantic entry about my chance encounter with a friendly librarian from Ohio months ago at Heathrow International.

Then I deleted it, both for the sake of brevity and because it was silly.

I never got her name, but I knew before she told me that she worked at a children's school (as a librarian, apparently) and that she walked to work on crisp spring mornings. She was part of a group of educators traveling to Morocco for a teaching summit, and we had absolutely nothing in common. For some reason the cafe seated me at her table as she was finishing her meal (some kind of salad, I think?) despite the fact that we were total strangers and there were empty tables available.
We made small talk, I tried to be polite and then I pulled out a book in an attempt to avoid intruding on her meal. I don't really remember much after that; but I can clearly remember her face, the comfortable dress she was wearing (deep red with a golden trim) and the fact that nothing remarkable occurred. It was not awkward nor invigorating, neither uncomfortable nor gratifying. It was pleasant and empty, like a hollow chocolate bunny or a warm cup of herbal tea.

I don't know why I felt the urge to write about it, and I'm not sure why I continue to recall the encounter despite it's utter lack of any defining moment. What I am sure of is that this is neither the first nor the last time I'll think back to that afternoon in London; I know that pleasant librarian (pretty in a plain sort of way) will follow me forever, and I unabashedly welcome it. I'll never see her again, but her bare footsteps will never cease, rustling softly amidst the crisp sounds of every spring morning.

Also, that salad and tea ended up costing me more than twenty bucks American.

Goddamn euro.