I met her at the bookstore. I had just come from work and was looking for the new Jack Ryan story; she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the graphic novel aisle.

Had I thought about it, I would have admitted that I had no idea what a graphic novel even was, but at the moment I was too busy stealing glances at her around the paperbacks. There was something about her demeanor, her casualness, the way she immersed herself fully in the glorified comic book in her lap and gently flicked the pages with abandon. That, and her outrageous blue hair.

I glanced around, slipped Clancy back on the shelf and ducked out of popular fiction. I quickly determined my best approach would be through the sci-fi section and scooped up some Asimov en route.

“Neil Gaiman, eh?” I asked. She looked up with a start and shifted her weight, the buckles on her leather boots clicking against each other softly.

“Yes…” she started.

“He’s one of my favorites,” I lied. “That one’s his best story yet, but I won’t spoil it for you.”