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About Ljubljana

“Turn off the lights,” I growl once. Dark hides weakness, like Georges in film. Happy? When knots pop, stress bleeds out. Exaggerate? Sure—felt like bear wrestled me. Sarcasm? “Oh, relax me, da, genius.” Still, useful—back’s steel now, not rust. Next time, I watch *them* closer. Cold. Calculated. Brevity. Finis.

Then, a lady walks in. She’s looking for a book on gardening. I’m like, “Sure, I can help!” But she starts asking me all these questions. “What’s the best soil?” “How much sunlight?” I’m like, “Lady, I’m a librarian, not a gardener!”