There is a little bookshop on the corner between Ivyline St. and Darthington Rd. that is owned by a young man named Arthur Kirkland. He's 5' 9", or 5" 9' as he writes, because he is from England and in my opinion, they do everything backwards there. Instead of putting month, day, year; they put it in the wrong order. This has led to countless confusions where I've booked plane trips and then shown up months early- he always laughs at me. And by he, of course, I am referring to the aforementioned Arthur.

I remember the afternoon we met. I, Alfred Jones, was doing an autograph session at Bound, much to Arthur Kirkland, the owner's, dismay. I walked up to the desk a few hours before it began, and decided to say hello...

===

"Hey, Sir, I'm Alfred, and I'm supposed to be doing a signing here this afternoon," I said, extending my hand. He looked up from his small, black journal, shoved it away, and sighed.

"You were supposed to be here at 12:00," he said, his upper-class accent showing through. I couldn't tell if that was just how he sounded, or if he was angry. "It's 16:00 now."

I stood up straight, scratching the back of my head. "Well, I just flew in from America last night, so I had a little bit of jet lag and then I couldn't figure out how your time-"

"Well, if you're as renowned an artist as everyone says you are, I should be able to assume you know how to work an alarm clock," he said, standing up and walking brusquely around his desk to where I stood. Annoyance. Definitely.

"Sorry, dude," I began, pushing up my glasses and taking a step backward. "First time out of the country for me... overseas autograph sessions are a lot more confusing than Mattie said they would be."

"Dude?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. Now that I noticed, they were actually quite thick, but something told me he wouldn't appreciate me commenting. I was about to explain that 'dude' was American slang, but he cut me off. "Nevermind that. Just... take your asinine comic books and wait for the fans to show up." He gestured to a stack of boxes by the corner of the shelf labeled "Biographical." I almost wanted to comment on how my comics weren't asinine, they were awesome, but the same little voice in my head told me he didn't want to hear it.

I grabbed the boxes, moving them over to a little table by the door in groups of two. They were pretty heavy, so I wanted to ask if the owner could help me carry them, but when I looked around, he was gone.

When my time slot finally came around, the shop filled up. It was pretty small, and I wondered why Matt chose such a small place- usually my signings got lots more people than this. Still, different country, I guess. People in the UK are less likely to want to read about superheroes fighting for America. Eventually, the crowd died down, and I was left with only a few people who were sticking around and asking me questions.

"How long does it usually take to finish one panel?" a brunette boy of about ten asked, handing over his copy of The Heroics of Foxboy."A few hours, or more?"

"It depends," I said, laughing and leaning back. "I have to draft it, then do the lineart, then color it... it'd say it takes between an hour and a few days, depending on how large it is, the complexity, and how much I already have planned."

"That must take a lot of time," his mother said, putting her hands on her son's shoulders. "How did you know you wanted to do this for a living?"

"Well, I've always loved heroes," I explained, "so when I was seven I decided to try my hand at it- I haven't given up since."

The boy beamed, nodded, and was led away by his mother, talking enthusiastically about how he wanted to do the same when he grew up- I could tell his mother wasn't thrilled with the idea, but I didn't sweat it. I think if it's your true calling, you'll end up doing it anyway- no matter what anyone else thinks.

After the last of the people left, I realized how empty the bookshop was without all of my fans. Was it always this way? Now that I thought about it, when I'd walked it, it was completely empty, though the door said "Come in- We're Open!"

The owner had returned to his desk, and was working on something that looked pretty important. Quickly, I pulled one of the last remaining books from the box and scribbled "To Mr. Kirkland- thanks for letting me use your space!" on it. It wasn't the most well thought-out gift, but it wasn't bad either.

I handed it to him with one of my smiles, and he looked at it disdainfully. Still, after a moment, he smiled, accepting it. Suddenly distracted, he grabbed some papers from his desk. "These are for you- a boy named Matthew called saying that he needed them given to you right away."

I took the papers, rifling through them. "I thought I forgot these- thanks, dude," I said, "anyway, I've gotta get goin' for now. I'll seeya around!"

He nodded, turning around and pushing in his chair as I left. I don't know why, but I felt a little bit sorry for the guy, his shop being so empty. It wasn't a bad place. The atmosphere was really pretty nice- plants and stuff like that. I told myself that next time I visit, I should try to buy something there.

My cell phone buzzed, and I saw I'd gotten a text from Kiku. I smiled, excited to see my Japanese friend again that I almost didn't notice that he'd tossed my autographed comic into the trash can.

===

"You shouldn't have been so hard on him," I said to myself, writing furiously. I couldn't shake the image of his face from my head after I'd called his comics asinine- I mean, I've seen them, and they are, but did I have to say it out loud?

I groaned, remembering that what's done is done, and I can't really go taking it back now, can I? After all, he's gone. And I'll never see him again. Not like it mattered. "Anyway, if I never see him again, he'll never have to make me feel bad about being such a brat."

The shop closed a few hours ago, and I was sitting curled up in one of the plush chairs in the corner of the fiction section. My spot was just out of view from the street, just in case someone didn't get the hint it was closed, and so I could write in peace. It was approaching midnight, and I stood up to officially close up shop and go home.

I put my journal away into my desk, locking the drawer with the key I kept in the register. Just as I was about to go, I heard a tapping at the door.

It was the American comic artist. "Oh God, not you again," I thought, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. I went to the door, opening it a little crack. "We're closed."

"Yeah, sorry man," he said, his bright blue eyes a little sad. "But... in that pile of papers ya handed me earlier, I think some of the stuff was yours."

My eyes widened, and I tried my best to act composed even though I knew I was blushing. "...was it? Oh... I... um... it may have been a mistake," I tried to say, letting him inside. "What was it?"

"The beginning of a story, I think," he said, handing me the mess of papers. Definitely mine, no doubt about it. Scanning the words, I breathed a sigh of relief- it wasn't the stuff I was ashamed to have written. "It's really good, actually. I hope you don't mind, but I may have read a little of it with my friend while we were supposed to be reviewing the manuscript."

I pulled the papers back a little bit instinctively, but then set them on my desk. "Ah... well.. thank you for returning them," I said, trying to wrap up our conversation and get him out the door. "Now-"

"I actually really like your protagonist, Annabelle," he continued, not catching my hint. "She sort of reminds me of a friend of mine. Really strong willed, and a little sarcastic..."

"Thanks," I said, leaning back on the desk. I was about to shoo him away, but he kept going.

"I think I've got a picture of her in the back of that book I gave you-" he said, standing up and picking it up out of the rubbish bin. He looked at it a little bit sadly, but then handed it over. Mentally, I reminded myself not to throw gifts away at the place where I receive them. He was probably completely pissed at me now- why am I such a jerk? "Turn to page 183," he instructed.

I did, and he pointed to a girl in her twenties with a long, brown braid and dark skin, sitting at a desk in a cubicle before the building was smashed. "She's nothing like Annabelle," I pointed out, "she has an office job, for one thing..."

"Well... occupation isn't everything," he said, "honestly, I put her there because I needed a face to put in one of the panels. Still, she's a good friend. You guys would get along. Now that I think about it, she wouldn't be the kind of person to work at a large corporation anyway!"

He was surprisingly kind to me for someone who had just realised I had thrown away his book, so I was a little bit confused. Then it hit me: he wanted an apology, and he deserved one.

"Heh," I said, trying to change the topic. "Anyway, I'm sorry for throwing your comic away," I said, flipping through the colourful pages. "I just... I don't really like this sort of thing."

He sighed. "That's fine, dude," he said, doing his best with my shabby apology. "So... are you a writer? 'Cause my cousin really likes that kind of thing, but he hasn't mentioned you-"

"No- not really," I said, cutting him off and mentally cursing my life. "I... I don't publish my stories or anything..."

"Well... why not?" he asked, moving so he was standing beside me. "They're really good!"

"It's not my fault they don't get published, you moron," I said to myself. I realised that was a pretty terrible thing to say, so instead, I simply said, "I just don't think they're worth it sometimes."

"If you love it, then of course it's worth it!" he said immediately, as if it was his catchphrase. Now that I think about it, didn't I hear him tell a little boy that earlier? I groaned. "I can try to talk to my publisher if you want."

"Um... but... don't you work for a comic book company?" I asked. "They may be reluctant to publish a novel."

He sighed. "I guess you're right..."

"Thank you for the offer, though- it's very kind of you," I said, putting the manuscript into my drawer. "I... I have to go home and make sure Peter got to sleep alright." Lame excuse, I know.

"You've got a son?" he asked, clearly a little bit surprised.

"No," I said, "he's my little brother. Usually he's off at boarding school, but he's back for winter break," I said, glancing to the clock. Almost 1 AM. Drat. I picked up my bag, rifling through it to make sure I had everything. "And... thank you again for the book," I said.

He nodded. "Do you want to take it to Peter or something? If not, I'll just end up selling it, probably," he said, looking it over.

The idea had never occurred to me. "Um, yeah, actually," I said, taking it and looking at the cover. "That's a great idea... he really likes this sort of thing."

Alfred smiled. "'Kay, then. Tell him I say hi!"

"I will," I nodded, opening the door and letting him out before me. "Goodbye, Mr. Jones."

"Bye, dude," he said, waving a little bit. "And don't be afraid to send your stuff off to publishers."

I was so busy walking in the other direction that I nearly missed that last part, but not busy enough. "That isn't the problem, moron," I said under my breath.