When Jill told me her husband was in the military, stationed abroad, I entertained some devious thoughts.

We met in a technical writing class in College Park. She had short, rusty-blond hair and a quiet, distracted look, twirling a pen in one hand as she eyed the teacher from her desk. When we were directed to find a partner for a class activity, I shot her a look, only to find she was already looking my way. We hit it off instantly. We had comic books in common, both fans of David Lamham’s Stray Bullets. She was smart, with a wry sense of humor I loved.

She seemed to welcome my company. There were after-class chats and maybe a couple of study sessions before we went out for dinner and drinks one night. Our conversation was animated, flowing freely for hours. The waitress had long, dark hair. She came and went throughout the night, smiling but unobtrusive. When she brought the check, she was effusive, telling us how nice it was to see a couple so deeply engaged with each other. Her eyes glittered with admiration. Jill and I looked at each other but said nothing.

We walked in near silence toward her apartment, leaves crunching under our feet along Knox Avenue. There was a pleasant afterglow from our extended conversation and just the right amount of alcohol, a vibe between us that felt too strong to ignore.

She paused a beat at her door. She turned and examined my face for a moment. Then she inclined her head and, with a hint of a smile, wordlessly invited me in.

Weeks later, Jill graduated and moved to California. Perhaps a year passed before I received an unexpected package from her. Inside was an autographed copy of Stray Bullets #1, “To Al!  Heyyy! Lapham,” scrawled across the cover in loose black script. In her letter, she explained how she and her husband had met the author at a comic convention, and she’d thought of me. In the enclosed photo, the couple looked happy. He was tall, blond and smiling in fatigues, his elbow bent around her neck, drawing her toward his chest. She beamed, her hair a bit longer now, her head angled sweetly toward him.

I guess it was her way of thanking me for everything that happened between us. And for everything that didn’t.

Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer. He lives in Phoenix with his wife, daughter, and three occasionally harmonious cats. His flash fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Quibble, Delmarva Review, Lunch Ticket, New Flash Fiction Review, The Perch Magazine and elsewhere. Find him on Twitter @AlfredFournier4.