Prose || Illusions of a Zac Hanson Junkie*

I stood there, amidst the crowd of girls screeching at him for an autograph. Somehow, I was suddenly standing right in front of him and I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Kick-ass socks, man,” he said, smiling at me while taking my bit of paper to sign.

My brain went dead. All I could think of was how I should respond with something witty, something worthwhile, and something that would make him remember the craziness of that morning and go: “the girl with the weird accent; she was funny.”

“Oh, thanks.” I mentally kicked myself. I wrapped my coat around me, out of habit, for even though it was freezing, I wasn’t feeling anything. All I could sense was his smell – like soap- and his smile – the brightest smile I’ve ever seen in my life-.

He handed me back my bit of paper. Our hands touched. Nothing fancy, nothing important. He shook my hand and smiled even wider at me.

And turned to the girl beside me, smiling at her as well. But not as brightly. No, not as brightly.

*written April 16th, 2004 shortly after meeting Hanson for the first time in NYC.