At the Library

I go through the turnstile hoping nobody at the desk on the left notices me. This isn't my town. But I go to libraries when I have time to kill. They're quiet. Inside, people are looking down at books or magazines or their laptops. They're comfortable. I move into the space with tables and chairs acting like I belong there. I walk past stacks of books (Why do they call them "stacks"? Aren't they book cases?) I look for a lonely place where I can huddle, open up my tablet, and read or write some words. The smell inside is kind of comforting: book paper or binding, I'm not sure how to describe it.  I find a table where no one's sitting yet. I pull back the heavy, rigid oak chair and gently slide into it. I pull out my tablet as the Velcro on my bag announces my presence with a loud crackle. I unfold my tablet cover, prop it up, and sign in as the bright bluish display glares at my face. I slide and tap on the screen to navigate to the notepad where I can begin writing about "At the library", my writing warmup exercise for the day. Now, a question for you: did I write this at a library or am I making it up?