Going West in Henderson; a different country.

Arriving in Henderson; in a van with Robert and classmates.
When we get out, I want to smoke but I can't because the library is so close, and besides my mouth is occupied with gossiping with Siagaw. As we travel further into civilization, it becomes quite obvious we didn't belong there; in terms of the social capacity and withering glances from townsfolk who looked at us strangely. The way a flea would at flawless skin. Ripe for silent interrogation.
It was as though we attracted a chunk of South Auckland cloud that hung over us. But I don't care. Most were arrogant sneers, people that said "who the fuck are you? Go home."
We get inside the library. It smells of ink and distant perfume.
The lady... whose name for the life of me I can't remember, looked like a dark and short-haired Mary Swanson. I nearly laughed, had it not been for her hard and intimidating glance. Contrast of ice age against sizzling sun.
We went into a room together. And in that room we sat around a table; a table that had little pencils in silver transparent containers and portfolios filled with pictures of well known writers and a list of their works. They were fun to flip through while Mary Swanson introduced the librarian and the recipients on the CDs we would be hearing and extracting notes from. I took down quite a few. Lord knows I was not in a good space; I could only absorb so much and then I started to annotate Myra Hindley quotes in my head.
"She should have gotten rid of that baby, and she should get rid of this one."
"We love it anywhere, don't we, Neddy?"
"Oh God, this takes me back..."
"Did you see the look in his eyes when that first blow registered?"
"I already told you, I've got nothing to say. My version of events of that evening, are exactly the same as Ian's version of events."
NO I HAVE NEVAH BEEN TA ASHTON MARKETS. NEVAH! NEVAH BEEN TO ASHTON MARKETS.
"I ask you to judge me as I am now, and not as I was back then."
I start giggling then; to myself. Mary Swanson watches me, and I smile at her. Her smile is sort of tipped, like its resting on an unstable surface. We listen to more poets, and I write some notes. Sometimes in between pausing, we'd discuss a particular writer's processes and idea of life; along with their general genre and the impact it had, etc.
I picture a cigarette butt kissing my lower lip; I fondle my Myra Hindley pen. I write more notes, because it comes to my pinch. And it comes to Robert's attention that we have to leave, to beat traffic. Business cards are dispersed amongst us. I tuck them into my bag, right beside my serial killer book that aids my research.
And on the way to the van, I smoke half a cigarette. I suck that white bitch, like a desperate vampire would a body drained of blood. And on the way back, I try to write but its hopeless. At that time, I'd rather just comment on the stupidity of children running out into the traffic, unaware of the risk of death or any sense of caution. Most children are stupid, because their parents are. Tsktsktsk.