The Fan Sign

I was the four hundredth fan in line, which meant I had exactly eight seconds with him before the staff moved me along. I had rehearsed my eight seconds for a week.

I forgot every word. He signed my album, looked up, and instead of the practiced idol smile he gave me a real one — surprised, a little shy, like I had caught him off guard just by existing.

"You dropped this," he said, and pressed a folded note into my palm under the table where the cameras could not see. Eight seconds. It was enough to ruin me for anyone else.

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