Out Late

I sighed and turned around. I was being followed. And the person didn't even try to hide it! I was tired of it. "So when do you plan to stop following me?" I asked aloud. A little boy stood up from behind some trash cans. He looked down, embarassed that I knew he had followed me. "Well? What do you want? And don't say nothing, because there has to be a reason you followed me for so long," I asked, voice flat. I really didn't want to deal with some guy right now. "Well, I was hoping for an autograph. I love your paintings," he told me, voice filled with hope. I sighed, annoyed. "You're my favorite artist. I want to be like you when I get older," he said. His face was bright and cheerful. I shook my head, amused. "Trust me kid. You have no idea who I am," I said, but his expression didn't change. "Yes I do. You're my favorite artist," he said. I frowned. "That's not what I mean," I said. Then I smiled, and showed my fangs.