superhero.

I don't think I'd ever felt my hands shake the way they were now.

I was never good at waiting. Especially not when it was in meter-long lines standing shoulder-to-shoulder with people drenched in sweat from the cruel summer heat. Now, however, it'd finally pay off. I took a brief glance at the comic book clutched in my hands. The cover was smooth, still coloured vividly despite being years old.

I still remember the day I'd brought it home. The thrift store down the dark alleyway, that smelled of pine needles and dust and worn velvet chairs.

I'd found the case in a donation box right by the door. $12.99 for a full case of George Arthur's 'Wonder' saga, practically still in mint condition aside from a few creases I couldn't mind less. The superhero crazed teenager inside me was set for life.

I even remembered how I'd taken them home, how I'd spent time lining them up in my shelves and making sure they looked perfect.

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When the gate to the bookstore clicked open, the crowd stampeded. A flurry of school aged children and middle aged men alike, all rushing through one door for the same reason.

I was going to get my comic signed by George Arthur. My childhood hero.

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I quickly noticed he looked very different from what I imagined. He had bags under his eyes, and wore a pinstripe suit very obviously drenched in coffee and covered in crumbs. His brown locks resembled dark licorice, and his horn-rimmed spectacles and uninterested expression made him appear almost as a professor you'd see who complains about resenting his job. The way he glanced at me, eyes narrowed, almost bored, it was slightly underwhelming. It made my heart clench with a sort of strangled disappointment.

''Sir, I'm a huge fan.''

''Hm..'' He muttered under his breath, not even taking a moment to look up at me. His slim fingers moved with fast strokes across the smooth cover, writing his name out in sharp black ink. He handed it back to me, raising an eyebrow.

''Well?''

I blinked, shifting slightly. ''Yes?''

''You're keeping people waiting.''

My eyes widened just a bit.

''Right...of course. Sorry.''

''Will you be moving along, then?''

The coldness in his tone was very, very off putting.

I cleared my throat, backing myself out of the line and walking back towards the door I'd walked in so hopefully through. How did that saying go? 'Don't meet your heroes.'? I never understood why that was so common to hear. What could be so bad about meeting someone, talking to someone you've admired for years?

Now, I think I understood why.

Don't touch your idols, a little gold always rubs off.

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