The Library on Vine Street

I often find myself completely immersed in the pages of a book, a habit that has been a cornerstone of my life since childhood. From a young age, I discovered the transformative power of storytelling—each book a portal to another world, a refuge from the chaos that often surrounded me. My childhood was anything but serene; my home was marked by the constant clash of my parents' voices, filled with arguments that echoed through the walls like a never-ending storm.

One parent struggled with alcohol, their laughter often replaced by silence and slurred words. The other drifted in and out of reality, succumbing to the allure of street drugs and disappearing for days at a time, leaving me to navigate the world alone. In those turbulent moments, when the world felt overwhelming and unstable, I turned to literature as my solace.

With each turn of the page, I could escape to distant lands and vibrant characters, where problems were resolved and adventures awaited. Books became my sanctuary, allowing me to explore the depths of human emotion and experience the warmth of connection—feelings that often felt absent in my own life. In the embrace of fiction, I found not just an escape, but a deeper understanding of resilience, hope, and the power of imagination. It was within those stories that I learned to dream beyond my circumstances, crafting a future that felt both possible and promising.

Now, as an adult, I still use books as a way to escape my life. I’m a mother of three, married to an emotionally unavailable man who was a workaholic, a pediatric doctor who worked long hours while I slaved away at home, cooking and cleaning and raising the three children we shared. Jacob was the oldest, twelve. He was responsible and kind-hearted and reminded me of the heroes I spent so much time reading about. Joseph was the middle child, nine years old, and a terror, rebellious and loud and knew how to get on everybody’s nerves. And then there was Phoebe, my youngest who was three. She was sweet and bubbly and I adored her. Shamefully, I favored Phoebe above her brothers. She was a reminder of who I once was as a child and I swore to myself I wouldn’t let the world hurt her the way it hurt me. 

I had a routine; I got up at five every morning, took my shower, did my skincare, made breakfast and woke the children up. I got them ready for school, kissed my husband good-bye, drove Phoebe to day care, and then I was alone for eight hours. Usually, I spent the time cleaning the house and waiting for my children to come home. But last April, I made a habit of visiting the library. I even got a library card and on the weekends and during the summer, I took the children there to read books or play on the playground right behind it. But on days that I was alone, I’d find a book and snuggle up in one of the chairs they had and fall away into fantasy. 

But this day was different. I met someone. I was in the thriller aisle and I reached for a book called The Pope’s Secret at the same time, unknowingly, as a woman. Our hands met and I pulled mine back, blushing. “Sorry,” I said. 

“No, no, don’t be.” She replied. 

I looked at her, and the sight took my breath away. She was undeniably beautiful, a striking vision that was captivating in the way a film star’s beauty was captivating. Her hair flowed like molten copper, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves that caught the light. Those emerald green eyes sparkled with an intensity that drew me in, holding a depth that suggested a world of stories just waiting to be told. Her milky skin glowed with an almost ethereal quality, smooth and radiant as if kissed by moonlight. Every detail of her appearance was meticulously crafted; she wore an elegant dress that hugged her figure perfectly, the fabric flowing gracefully with each subtle movement. Accessories were tastefully chosen—delicate earrings that glimmered like stars and a simple necklace that rested gently against her collarbone.

As I observed her, I couldn’t help but admire the way she carried herself with a quiet confidence, exuding an air of sophistication and charm. It was more than just her physical beauty; there was something enchanting about her presence that seemed to light up the room, leaving a lasting impression on everyone fortunate enough to be near her.

As for me, I felt distinctly humble in her presence. My hair was a nondescript shade of brown, a bit mousy and unremarkable, and my gray eyes lacked the vibrant sparkle that radiated from hers. My freckled skin told stories of countless days spent outdoors with my children, but I often saw it as a canvas for my insecurities rather than a badge of honor. I was dressed in shabby sweatpants that had seen better days and a plain t-shirt that hung loosely on my frame, offering little in the way of style or flair.

In stark contrast to her striking beauty and effortless elegance, I felt like a shadow—unassuming and overlooked. While she radiated confidence, her impeccable outfit accentuating her every feature, I felt as if I blended into the background, unnoticed and unremarkable. The differences between us loomed large, a reminder of the disparity that existed not just in our appearances but in the ways we moved through the world. I often found myself overshadowed by women like this, the ones who were put together and well-to-do. Even back in school, I always felt lesser than the pretty, popular girls that everyone loved and admired. And in high school, I had grown annoyed by these perfect girls and strived to be different from them. I dressed in all black and did my makeup in ridiculous ways. Though in college, I left that behind and tried to blend in and that’s how I met my husband, by blending in at a college party. Funny how things work. 

She smiled serenely. “I’m Emilia,” she said quietly. “I’ve actually read that book before but thought about reading it again. It’s a good one.”

Her name, Emilia, fit her pristine appearance. It was a pretty name. I nodded at what she said, reaching once again for the book. I looked at the cover, a towering cathedral and the shadow of a priest. I didn’t normally read thrillers. I appreciated fantasy books more. But I think I have read all the fantasy books in the library by then. I looked back up at her. “It seems like it is. I’m Bea.” My name was just as bland and boring as I looked. 

“Bea,” she said again, her serene smile radiating warmth. “I really like that name.”

A rush of warmth flooded my cheeks, and I felt my face flush. Her simple compliment wrapped around me like a soft embrace, making me acutely aware of how much I craved connection.

She tilted her head, her hair falling away in a way that was almost too perfect. She belonged in a movie scene. Her face was sculpted to perfection. Her bright red hair had to have been fake. Her eyes were like glittering emeralds, they belonged placed in gold bands. “Have we met before?”

I laughed lightly and curled my dry hair around my ear. “I doubt it,” I said. “I think I would remember you if we had.”

“No, no, you seem very familiar.” She tapped her chin ponderfully, her perfectly arched eyebrows furrowed in thought. 

I didn’t know what to say to her. I was certain I had never seen her before. 

“Ah-ha!” She laughed. “We delivered in the same hospital.”

It was my turn to furrow my brows in thought. I tried to remember her and I couldn’t imagine her ever being ugly in laboring. She must’ve been divine, even then. 

“Three years ago now. You had a girl, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes. My daughter, Phoebe.”

“Phoebe. Such a darling name. I had a girl, too. Delphine.”

Delphine. Such an elegant name. I could’ve kicked myself for not thinking of something more original for my daughter. 

“She just turned three this past March. So your daughter must be the same age. Did you deliver on the seventeenth?”

“Eighteenth, actually. Exactly at midnight.”

“Oh, isn’t that magical,” she said. Her voice matched her appearance, delicate and soothing, with a lilting quality that danced through the air like a gentle breeze. Each word flowed effortlessly, wrapping around you in a warm embrace, making it impossible not to be enchanted by her every syllable. Magical is not a word I’d describe my labor; It was hard and painful and I gave no thought to Phoebe arriving at midnight. “Is she here with you?”

“No, she’s at daycare. I usually bring her and the boys on the weekends.”

“Oh, you have boys, too? What are their names?”

“Jacob and Joseph. Twelve and nine.”

“Oh, I bet having boys is wonderful. I’ve always wanted a boy but I have two girls. Delphine’s older sister is named Juliette. She’ll be six in November.”

“How sweet.” 

“They are. They are perfect. Well-behaved and smart. I’ve introduced them to reading as soon as possible and I read to them when I was pregnant. I want them to be well-rounded.”

“Oh, of course, we all want that for our children.”

“Certainly but I feel the want of parents for their children to be readers has dwindled. There’s not as much emphasis on it as there was when I was a girl. At least that’s how I feel.”

“None of my children are readers. Jacob prefers video games, Joseph likes picture books or books about animals, and little Phoebe can’t quite read yet. She’s working hard on it but she stumbles over more than two syllables.”

“Oh well she’ll get there, I’m sure.”

I nodded, not sure what to say next. She had me trapped in a trance. She was so alluring and attractive. I had always found myself jealous of women like her, wishing I was as desirable. I knew my husband preferred other women to me. I was told that he flirted with the nurses at the office and I knew he watched porn when he thought I was asleep. It filled me with deep rage. Why wasn’t I enough for him? I worked hard to maintain a certain physique but I’ll admit, as of late, I had been lacking. And finding something attractive but comfortable to wear was a difficult task. I hated certain textures. And I always looked frumpy in a pretty dress. So I normally opted for sweatpants or leggings and a loose fitting shirt or sweater. 

“You must not work. What does your husband do?”

“He’s a pediatric doctor.”

“Oooh,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I bet he makes good money.”

“Good enough that I don’t have to work,” I chuckled. “Not enough to hire a maid unfortunately.”

We shared a laugh, a moment of genuine joy that brightened the air around us. Her laughter rang out like the delicate chime of bells, light and melodic, evoking a sense of whimsy and delight. In contrast, my laugh emerged more hoarse and rough, a reminder of the many late nights tending to children and early mornings that had worn on my spirit.

Yet in that instant, the difference only seemed to deepen the connection between us. Her laughter danced through the space, while mine added a grounded, earthy quality, creating a harmonious blend of sound. It was a beautiful reminder that even in our differences, we could find a shared joy, each of us bringing our own unique note to the symphony of the moment.

“My husband is a corporate lawyer. He says the same, we don’t have enough to hire a maid. I call bullshit on that. I think he just likes to torture me.” She winked. “Well, enjoy the book, Bea.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She smiled at me and nodded, turning around and I caught myself staring at her buttocks. It was firm and rounded. I pictured her doing yoga in the mornings. As soon as she walked away, a profound sense of loneliness enveloped me, leaving me acutely aware of my solitude in that aisle. The vibrant energy she had faded, and I felt adrift. The emptiness seemed to echo around me, amplifying the contrast between her warmth and the isolation that settled in as she disappeared from view.

I found myself a place to sit in the back of the library. Emilia was in my sight, reading a book with her daughter coming to her every now and then. I found myself watching her more than paying attention to the book. She filled me with jealousy but with something else, something I didn’t have a word for. Was it wanting? A yearning for her touch, to smell her hair and feel her skin? Was I going insane?

I had a few clandestine encounters with females in my youth. My best friend as a girl, Daniella, and I practiced kissing in her room. I fooled around with an unknown girl in college at a party. I had always been attracted to other women but never as much as I was to Emilia. She was stunning, like a character plucked out of a romance novel. Her red hair was like a fiery waterfall, catching the light and igniting the air around her with a warm glow. Each strand shimmered with a rich, coppery hue that seemed to dance with every movement, creating a captivating halo that framed her face. It was a color that evoked the passion of a sunset, vibrant and alive, drawing the eye as if it held secrets whispered only to those who dared to look closely. The way it tumbled over her shoulders and curled playfully at the ends gave her an air of effortless allure, as if the very essence of romance was woven into every lock. Her emerald green eyes were mesmerizing, like deep, lush forests shimmering under dappled sunlight. They sparkled with an enchanting vibrancy, each glance revealing layers of emotion and intrigue. Framed by dark lashes, those eyes seemed to hold the mysteries of the universe, drawing you in with a magnetic pull. I yearned to feel her skin, to smell her hair, and back in the aisle, she left behind the faint scent of a jasmine perfume. 

I felt insignificant compared to her and yet, she made me want to be a woman like her; effortlessly beautiful and shining bright like a distant star in stark darkness. Women like Emilia either empowered or intimidated women like me and I wished her presence and existence empowered me but oh, how did it intimidate me and make me feel small. 

As I left the library, Emilie stopped me. “You know, we should get the girls together sometime.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Sure. Phoebe would like that. Most of the kids at her daycare are boys.”

“Oh, then we have to do it! Here,” she scrawled out her phone number on a piece of paper from her purse. “My number. Text me sometime and we can get together.”

I nodded. “I certainly will.” I pushed a smile.

“So nice to see you again, Bea.”

“Yes. Same to you.”

I left the library and returned home. The home felt empty and vast and my mind was racing with thoughts of Emilia. I felt something deep in me, something that seemed to have awakened. A want, a need. I hurried to my bedroom and laid on my bed, my heart racing, and I put my hand down my pants, feeling for my sweet spot. It felt dirty, what I was doing, but I closed my eyes and pictured her-her fiery hair, her stunning emerald eyes, and moonlight-akin skin. And by the time I climaxed, it was time to pick up Phoebe from daycare. 

I drove to the daycare, my mind swirling with thoughts of Emilia and her phone number was hot in my pocket. I chewed my nails in the waiting line. And seeing Phoebe’s bobbing head as she was brought to my car by a daycare worker, I tried to push a smile. “Hi, baby,” I greeted her as she got into the car. Phoebe was smart, she knew how to buckle herself in. “How was your day?”

“Good, Momma.”

“Good.”

“How was yours?”

I thought of Emilia and her perfection, her gorgeous hair and shining eyes. I thought of her laugh and her enchanting demeanor. I smiled. “It was good.” We drove home and my life, unfortunately, went back to normal.