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"Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!" The voices were coming

from all directions as I was standing in the middle of

the aisle. Good thing I am the only person in here, I

thought, I have been walking up and down for the last

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fifteen minutes. I nervously look around at all my

choices. They all look so tempting; sometimes it's

impossible to choose just one. I pick up a thick

hardcover with a seductive woman on the cover. "A

romantic novel, based on the island of Australia,

trails the life of Veronica de Havilland." Too

predictable, I think. I decide to choose a paperback

without any pictures; there's just the title and the

author. Simple, yet alluring. I'll give this one a try

and all the little "Pick me!" voices begin to subside.

It's a Friday night and you're probably wondering why

my biggest contemplation is over a book, instead of

which new movie to watch. My perfect night would be

spent reading at Barnes and Noble and never having to

leave. Usually, Barnes and Noble closes promptly at

eleven o' clock at night. I've suggested several times

to the manager to consider extending the business

hours. Maybe it's my age, but it didn't seem as if my

suggestion had any significance. Or it could be the

fact that whenever I come, which happens to be every

week religiously, I end up gathering a pile of books

and I never seem to have enough time to get to all of

them. It's probably a pain having to reshelf them. I

make a mental post-it note to try not to let my greedy

passion of reading get the best of me. I can't seem to

find any empty chairs so I decide to sit on the floor.

I turn the first few pages and just before I reach the

first page of the story, I start to giggle silently to

myself. I wonder how the other people around me must

think of me a teenage girl on a Friday night, sitting

on the ground and laughing to herself as her index

finger is marking the beginning of an unpredictable

new journey.

When I was in the first grade, the library near my

house stopped letting me borrow more than twenty-five

books at a time. Now, the bookstore won't let me stay

past eleven. Of course, I could just buy the book.

But it's the whole Barnes and Noble experience that

contributes to the exhilaration of reading. It is

like the feeling I get after playing two hour straight

in a concert. My fingertips are swollen and red,

indented because of the string, my arms have been numb

since the start of the last movement and I have played

all the rosin off my bow. My body hurts, but I am on

cloud nine. The soft jazz music, the lingering smell

of coffee from Starbuck's next door, the occasional

cell phone ring and especially the big soft chairs at

the end of every aisle are all the props the Barnes

and Noble setup needs.

The hands of the clock are nearing eleven o' clock

and I am halfway through my book. The cashiers will

be closing soon and there are the last few customers

in line. I am walking towards the only exit that is

left open, which I note is on the opposite side of the

parking lot I parked in. My eyes are still indulging

in every word and I can not seem to let go. I hate

being rushed when I am reading and I remind myself to

come back tomorrow. "Miss, will you be purchasing

that book tonight? Our cashiers will be closing in

five minutes." I quickly scribble something on my

reciept from lunch and reluctantly hand back The

Invisible Man by Ralph EIlison, page 10 to the

employee. As I am left bookless in the middle of the

main aisle in Barnes and Noble, I look around myself

green bookshelves full of adventures just waiting to

be chosen.

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