Recently, I was cleaning out my wallet and stumbled upon my dusty library card, which got me thinking that maybe I should make the visit with the familiar old friend soon. On the other hand, I now find bookstores to be an inviting place more so, but I’ll get to the reason why later.

Then a friend and I were talking and one thing led to another and he asked me if I had been to the library in a while. My answer was no.

I love books. When I was little and when most kids took cuddly stuffed animals to bed, I was the “unique” one taking stacks of books to comfort me in bed. They were the things that would protect me from the monsters in under the bed, or in the closet. When it was time for lights out I wasn’t the one reading underneath the covers with a flashlight. I would sleep, I just liked the presence of books surrounding me as I dreamt of all the foreign lands I would visit and things I could do when I opened up the cover of the next book I would engross myself in.

My mom would always warn me, pretty much every night as mothers do best, that if I was not careful I would poke my eye out in my sleep with the corners of the books. I survived my childhood unscathed from the books. That is an accomplishment all in itself considering I am a klutz.

One of the places my nana and papa would take me when they were babysitting me was the library. We would listen to stories, or just curl up in a chair and read for hours. When we were done I would come out with piles upon piles of books. My mom would also take me to the library to get my never ending hunger fulfilled.

There is just something about a library that you can find comforting, like a home cooked meal. With its endless shelves of books, big and alluring chairs and coves where you can get lost for hours with the words, the library has always been a special spot for me.

It was only natural that in college I would resort to going to my local library to study my textbooks or catch up on my work. And I went there for a good portion of my freshman year and half of the first semester of my sophomore year, until one fateful day.

I like my privacy, so on that given day, textbooks in tow, I settled into a spot far in the back, behind the research books. I thought no one would be able to find me and only a few would delve that far into the stacks, boy was I wrong.

After about an hour of studying a female who was probably in college as well sat right across from me. When she opened her sack she didn’t withdraw a book to read or study notes, what she brought out was a sketchpad and a pencil.

I was intrigued and although pretending to read my book, I was actually observing her.

What I saw I didn’t much care for. She kept glancing up at me making me feel uncomfortable with each stroke of her hand. I figured out within 15 minutes, (I know that’s a long time) that she was sketching me. I was the object of her sketch.

I didn’t know what to do. On one hand she must have to have this sketch turned in for a class of some sort, but on the other hand she could have asked me if I didn’t mind being her subject. It freaked me out.

When I finally figured out what she was doing I packed up my stuff and left. Maybe I should have confronted her, but I didn’t want her to think I was full of myself or something. Peculiar things like this seem to only happen to me, I must note.

Since that day, I have not been back to the library. Maybe one day I’ll ease back into it with a friend, but until I’m ready for it, you’ll just see be perusing the shelves at the local bookstore.