Your Secret Obsession

The door chime rings and the old man behind the counter lifts his head. You wave to him as you walk past, smiling gently. He gives you a stiff nod before turning back to the book in his lap.

You walk through the shop, ignoring all those around you. There is a look of determination in your eye that forces those in your path to move before you reach them. As you walk, you tie back your auburn curls into a tight ponytail. It sways along your back to the beat of your walk, making your presence fierce.

There is only one place in the store that you could be heading. Anyone who knows you at all knows the obsession that lies in your heart. Well, maybe only your truest friends know of your obsession. The rest of the world would need to do a little more sleuthing to find it. You have done an admirable job keeping your obsession a secret from the outside world, but it only takes bribing your landlord for someone to find the stash of thick, dusty hardcovers hidden on the shelves in your cupboard.

As you reach the back of the store, you turn right and head straight for the corner shelves. It’s the darkest, tightest corner of the store. The blaring pop music and cell reception don’t even reach back there. But to you, it is paradise.

The rows in front of you are filled with the same thick, dusty hardcovers that you hide in your room. You run your fingers along their spines, tracing the embossed letters and golden indents, your lips pulled into a peaceful smile. You read the titles, each of them drawing you in, tempting you to pull the book away from the shelf, to open it, to breathe in the musty scent of the pages, the let free the secrets they hold inside.

And that’s when you see it.

Anyone who has seen your collection knows that there is one key element missing. As you started building your collection, there was but one book that you knew would make it complete. You have spent weekends googling the book, searching antique stores and yard sales for the book. You have even tried to steal it from your university library, only to earn yourself a life ban.

As you massage the spine, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before you pull it from the shelf.

Your jaw drops as your fingers close in on it and, for the shortest of moments, you close your eyes. It’s almost as if you can’t believe that it’s actually real, that you’re actually touching it, that it’s actually within your reach. You hold the book in your hands, and your smile grows. You delicately touch the front cover, bracing yourself.

As you open the cover, your eyes bright, a glitter bomb explodes from within, coating your face and hair, as well as the shelving behind you, in an array of bright, sparkling pink.

Moving as quietly I can, I snap a photo of you in your glittered distress, the shock on your face from both the glitter bomb and the hole cut into the book clear. The polaroid prints as I walk away from the mess I’ve created.

I walk toward the front of the store, shaking the polaroid as I go. By the time I reach the front, the photo has fully developed. I stop at a table, pulling the little black notebook out of my back pocket.

Carefully, I peel the clear adhesive off the back of the photo and stick it into the book below the delicately written instructions. With my phone, I take a photo of the page and send it to the number listed in the instructions.

As the old man behind the counter leaves his post and rushes to the back of the store, I slide the little black notebook back into my pocket and head towards the exit. My phones chimes as I open the door, and I step out onto the street $20,000 richer.