Feeling Guilty

I’m surprised he’s reading the Daily Mail.

     Why?

     Because he lost his job at the library when they went to automated self-service (which I hated at first but then thought was user-friendly and convenient).

     And?

     Because being a librarian he’s supposed to have more liberal, educated tastes and not read the Daily Mail.

     Are you a snob?

     Because he has a kindly face and speaks in a gentle manner, the words like a soft sheet over the air.

      So what?

      Because he’s a small man with a tiny, pointed head poking through a flutter of blonde hair.

      And?

     Because he looks so lonely; a tiny figure tucked under the table like a boy and I feel sorry for him.

     There’s something else, isn’t there?

     Because he’s disabled: his two hands are fused together into two beak-like limbs that struggle to turn the pages. I remember him serving me, using his two beak-hands to hold books. And I remember thinking how good it was he has a job. And I remember feeling like I was patronizing him with my thoughts. And I remember feeling so sorry for him, and a little repulsed by the hands, and guilty.

     Feeling guilty.