It was just supposed to be another Wednesday visit to my local comic book haunt. I’d push open the heavy glass doors, plastered with the latest four-color promos for muscled heroes and limited editions. I’d drop my backpack at the front counter as a friendly theft-deterring courtesy, even though I’ve been going there for a decade now and the staff knows me – if not by name – then at least by facial hair variation.
I’d wind my way past the anime DVDs, foil-wrapped trading cards, black and white indies. I’d graze a finger across the cool edge of glass display cases, filled haphazardly with hand-painted busts of childhood icons. I’d work my way back to the monthly racks, where regulars would shuffle sideways with a nod and make space so I could leaf through my favourites in the B’s, G’s, and J’s. Maybe I’d find a gem, and clutch it gently as I pivoted towards the back shelves – the ones stuffed with graphic novels and movie posters and scripts and boarded back-issues with plastic bag skins…
And then I’d get what I really came for. The little flood of warmth in the chest and the nervous, tingling fingers. The gentle steps and measured movements, so as not to startle. The slow extension of self, purposeful and profound, to touch and be touched. Lazy moist eyes and dimpled nostrils. Tired silver whiskers and serrated cinnamon ears. And soft, tiny paws – choosing to sheath their daggers – guiding me to a fragile, misshapen mouth that held sandy pink treasure. Every Wednesday. The same joy. The sweetest feline blessing…
But not today.
Today, there’s just a picture.
Today, there’s just a picture on a handmade card.
Stained with glue…
And tears…
And sloppy ink memories…
Including my own.