I have always been an avid reader, even more so as a child. I became a member of the library in our village when I just learned how to read. It was magical.
When I was 10/11 years old I’d read through all the books in the kid section, including those meant for older children.
I was ready to branch out. I stood on the corner that separated the children’s section from the rows and rows of fiction deemed suitable for older teens and adults. Would I dare?
I looked around for the librarian, a good looking man in his early 20’s, my secret crush. He rummaged through the catalog at the other end of the library, the adult non-fiction.
There were only two volunteers around, elderly ladies who always smelled like peppermint. One was storing books in the far end of the adult fiction, and the other sat behind the desk, drinking tea with loud slurping noises while reading a magazine.
I slowly ventured towards the whole new world of books. Did anyone notice me? I looked left and right, but they were all oblivious to my grand adventure.
I grabbed a couple of books in the first bookcases, and stumbled up to the volunteer at the desk. I trembled as I placed the books on the counter and the library card on top.
The volunteer never looked at me. She just wrote my number down on the cards she pulled from inside the books. She handed me my pile and wished me a good day, her eyes already back on her magazine.
I went home feeling like a hero. Only when I was home, safe in my bedroom, I dared to look at the books I borrowed. The titles aren’t in my mind anymore, there’s only room for the victorious feeling I felt.