My mom sent me an email describing a used book sale at the Camden County Voorhees Library.

  The used book sale it described seeped its way into my schedule, and on the Thursday of the sale, I stepped through Eden in search of fruit. The sliding doors split their seam as I walked forward, and the tantalizing scent of yellowing pages engulfed me. I’ve never been so weak-kneed; it’s addicting to lose control.

  Hours at each table, I culled books whose jackets were more tender to me than any I’ve worn. My arms ached but I felt no sensation other than the exhilaration that dried my throat. It only made me thirsty for more.

  I carried my first box of books to my 2005 Camry as if weightless. In my parents’ eyes, I probably should’ve started the car right then and there. But the only engine I started was the one coursing within me, urging me to go back in. So I did.

  I called my friend over to join me before I decided to leave. But Fate crocheted her course. As I waited for Bianca to withdraw cash, I found a secluded table clothed in the most sensual of fabrics: old, classic books.

  My breathing labored as I picked up with delicate fingers century old, original Stratford editions of Shakespeare. For what sane reason would anyone be so careless as to hide these marvels beyond all of the books for sale? I can conjure none, for I define it as I do sin.

  Gerald, the security guard of the event, recognized me as I approached him to pay with yet another box of books, this time in three trips. The woman to his side asked me if I was with the wedding planners who were buying the old editions for wedding centerpieces. Such words were epinephrine to my heart. What absurdity would convince me to estrange the children I’ve just adopted for use other than reading?

  Gerald smiled as if he understood my silence. He asked, “Have you seen the collections for sale?”

  Indeed I had, but I refused to look. I wouldn’t be able to afford the brand new editions. But my willpower was already fragmented, and his urging was the final strike of the chisel. I approached.

  I nearly swooned as I caught site of the Grolier Great World Classics 24 book set, and I was paralyzed when he sold them to me for a mere $15.

  Not even two minutes into my drive home, I pulled over. My hands shook reminiscent of a tick, and the incredulity that infused my veins veiled my sight. I certainly should not have been driving.

  When I returned home with my three boxes brimful with 58 books, my parents were not met with the same novelty as I was. “Where are you going to put these?” and “What a waste of your money!” could not pervade my exhilaration. My parents and siblings adhere to a scientific and mathematical lifestyle.  I’m the odd one—an honorable divergence.

  The film on my fingers from century old books accompanying their distinctive musk was my contentment. The allergic rash that ensued after carrying these dusty editions did nothing to sway my adoration.

  My parents don’t understand the thrill I’ve experienced. These copies of Moby Dick, The Divine Comedy, and Crime and Punishment will one day fill the shelves of my private library (but for now occupy all floor space in my room).

  I am amassing what will one day be my own Library of Beluch. Needless to say, I returned two more times.

  One day, a woman like me may find my name on the inside of a used book at her library’s book sales. Even more exciting is the possibility that my work will one day be in somebody else’s library.

  Until then, I keep reading.