"Oh my God!" You shriek in excitement. "Eva! I can't believe it's actually you!"
She looks you over, standing there in a respectable suit with a respectable briefcase of wares to sell, screaming and fawning over her like one of her pre-teen girl fans at a concert.
"Uh, can I help you?" She asks, trying to be polite, but clearly uncomfortable with the situation. She looks like she wants to get rid of you as quickly as possible.
You're conflicted now. On the one hand, you have a job to do, and you know that the smarter, more adult thing to do would be to get control of yourself and do your job. Sell your newspapers and move on down the street. But the other part of you, the super-fan with the Eva posters on your wall at home and the Eva collectible merchandise and memorabilia scattered all around your apartment, wants to scream and cry and fall down on your knees and her feet and worship her for the talented musician/entertainer goddess that you know she is.
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