Penelope stopped in front of 389.2 closing her eyes. After 496 years on Earth, and 144 spent trying to memorize the Dewey Decimal System, she still had to pause and think when reshelving books. Nope. She was in the wrong place, folktales were in 398.2. She turned around and stuck a book about skinwalkers back where it belonged, before turning back to her heavy cart, pushing it through the aisles.

Passing the community notice board, she saw a flyer for an Irish Step Dance class. She chuckled to herself, thinking about the last time she had tried Irish Step, about 93 years ago. Or was it 94? No matter. She had been absolutely terrible at it, but the monotony of the library days were getting to her so she picked up a flyer. As she folded it into a square, the webbing between her index finger and thumb sliced along the impossibly sharp edge of the paper, blossoming blood almost immiediately.

“Goddammit!” she burst out. The already hushed library became immediately and unnervingly silent as the circulation desk paused its stamping, the computer users ceased typing, and librarian reading aloud for Children’s Story Hour stopped mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” Penelope called out as she sheepishly held up her hand. “Paper cut.”

Everyone she knew had The Marks. Every "traffic was horrendous" or "I couldn't find my keys" was there on their bodies, along with the bigger"I love you"s and "I'm sorry"s. But her porcelain skin glowed with honesty. Except, she had no one to share it with. No one wants to talk to you when you only speak the truth.

I didn’t even know it had happened until it was already over. You know that feeling you get when you realize you have thought something inappropriate or wrong and you’re not sure what it was but you know it’s out of place? That feeling bubbled up into my lungs while watching TV and it had passed before I could even identify it. The scene was a girl entering a state park restroom on a chilly autumn night. It was her outfit that made me feel it: skinny jeans, boots, fitted sweater, denim jacket. The feeling? A lust for fall.

I thought of my favorite gray boots and new denim jacket bequeathed to me at the end of last spring, too late in the season to really get any wear out of it. I remembered the softest sweater I owned and how wearing it to work felt like cheating because it wasn’t uncomfortable and stuffy like most office-wear. I took a deep breath, willing crisp air to enter my lungs. I felt like a fraud, that I was betraying my summer birth and love of endless beach days.

Living in Texas I never truly understood the love of fall or the season itself. Moving to the East Coast I assumed that would never change. I assumed I would never change. Even through apple picking trips and pumpkin carving contests, I unconsciously vowed never to embrace the leaves turning or the boots coming out.

I suppose in little ways 9 years in the northeast had chipped away at my resolve. It happened slowly at first, buying more scarves, embracing a apple cider doughuts, but I still maintained I was a summer baby and sunshine lover. Even when I realized (sadly) that hardly any housing on Long Island had central air, I still maintained my affinity for hot, bright days.

But now I long for fall.

What took me so long to embrace something that was clearly inching its way into my heart for almost a decade? I didn’t want to give up my identity, I think. I felt that saying I loved the September-November season would be an affront to my home state that could never really muster the weather to claim it had an autumn. Or that I would be just like “everyone else” who embraced the crisp mornings and short afternoons. And God-forbid I be like anyone else.

But I’m out now, and I’m proud.