I suffer from a very serious – slightly embarrassing – addiction.

Unlike so many of my relatives, I am not an alcoholic (yet). However, my addiction has definitely warped my sense of reality. I can’t be narc-ed out like a druggie, but I still need a dealer to get my stash.

God, do I have to say it? I’m addicted to romance novels. You know what I’m talking about, the paperbacks with semi-scandalous, sexy depictions on the covers, which are set in England in the mid 1800s and all have basically the same plot? Yeah, that’d be them. I read them like a nine-year-old boy eats candy after trick-or-treating.

I know they’re unrealistic, idealistic, sexist, and sickeningly romantic, but I can’t help it! This explains why I’m currently tiptoeing to the library’s checkout counter with three such books hidden underneath Crime and Punishment.

The librarian, a blonde, shaggy-haired, twenty-some-year-old man, is sleeping with his head on the counter, a waterfall of drool trickling down his chin.

I know what you’re thinking – embarrassed girl meets sloppy boy, they make coy conversation and fall in love and, after a series of dramatic events and an extended period of denial, finally find a way to be together and live happily ever after.

Um, no.

How about: boy meets girl nearly hyperventilating because she fails at using the self-checkout machine, boy makes sarcastic comment, girl finds witty retort, boy realizes girl is embarrassed by her selection of books and salvages her floundering dignity, boy and girl remain anonymous acquaintances and do not fall in love but continue a somewhat unnecessary role play so that the girl is somewhat less embarrassed when she comes to acquire more romance novels?

“All right, let’s do this dirty drug deal, Harry.” I throw my books onto the counter making the librarian now dubbed Harry dam the drool-fall and spring into a sitting position. I raise one eyebrow at him from beneath the visor of my faded scarlet baseball cap as he takes a moment to massage his eyes and remember where he is.

“Do you have the…payment?” He growls, playing the part of a mafia boss today. Too bad, I like it best when he pretends to be a Brooklyn narc. I toss him my library card so he can pretend to examine its validity.

He nods in approval, as if my card passes his keen evaluation, and runs the books individually through the scanner. “Nice cover up, Selma,” He whispers, referring to Fyodor Dostoevsky’s hard cover shielding my real reading materials. He doesn’t think I’m actually going to read Crime and Punishment. Actually, neither do I, but I’m not going to tell him that. He’s snickering. I already know he despises Russian literature – that’s kind of why I chose that book to hide the 

others; I’ve heard him call Tolstoy a stain on the “impeccable history of prose”. I tried to pretend I didn’t know him.

“You’re blowing our cover,” I sulk a little, “and did you just call me Selma?”

He scoffs, “Well, seeing as I don’t know your name, I had to make one up. You’re just lucky I didn’t pick something like Ermintrude. Besides, you called me Harry.”

“Fine. If you don’t like Harry, you can be Buzz. Just as long as I don’t have to be Selma.” My undertone is harsh, but not meant to sting. No pun intended.

“As in Light Year or Aldridge?” He makes a face.

“As in Freddy’s fake identity in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.”

He considers for a moment. “Okay, anything’s better than Harry.”

“May I have my – ahem – merchandise now?”

He slides the books across the counter, straight-faced. “Have ‘em back in four weeks. Or else.” Then he cracks a grin, “I still can’t believe you’d pick Crime and Punishment.”

Thank god he’s not an actual drug dealer – he wouldn’t survive.

“Hey, don’t judge me, you Russian Lit. Major. That’s how I roll.” As I’m leaving I spot a silver plastic pin attached to his Easter yellow polo. “Are you wearing a name tag?”

He so is.

His expression blanches and he tries to cover it up a millisecond too late.

“Dale? Your name is Dale?”

So much for dealer-customer confidentiality.