I trembled in line at the Border in Oviedo, Florida, high off of the buzz from my fifth coffee that morning.
Hundreds of people swarmed the bookstore to meet Her and celebrate the sixteenth anniversary of Her Memoir, a story we had all collectively memorized word by word.
After eight days, it was finally my turn in line to meet Her. I didn’t look at her directly as I could already find my presence singing the pores on my cheek.
“It would be the trust honor for you to sign my book,” I said while pissing myself in fear.
She grabbed my hand and sliced my palm with her polka dotted fingernail. Her fountain pen lapped up the stream of blood running from my hand. She opened the cover and scribbled in my own hot ink:
dear you
don’t sleep
sleep tight
whatever
reba
Keegan Shepherd 