Wendy Serafina is a strange girl. A very strange girl, indeed.

At least that’s what everybody she knew said about her. It was pretty much the one thing anyone ever said about her.

And if she cared to do such a thing as take time from her day and think about it, even she would wholeheartedly agree.

While their world was centered around a certain, particular thing. Hers was not.

She’d given up that ghost.

For many different reasons.

She isn’t short. She's not tall. She is not fat. Nor is she skinny. She isn’t anything like the terms and blurbs people use to describe what they're jealous of.

Or what they're most afraid of becoming.

What she is, is just a girl. A strange girl. A girl that grew a little at a time. From the start of puberty, well into young adulthood. She was almost a college grad when the number in her height stat stopped rising. Eleven years. It took her that long to come true to her form.

She changed so slowly, even she hadn't noticed.

Now, here she is, like day to the night. A flower, blooming out of the cracks, in a world made of concrete.

You see, Wendy Serafina hadn’t fathomed her change. Neither did the people she grew up with. She was forgotten to them since fourth or fifth grade. And she was okay with that. It was better than being their target. And it afforded her more time, free of distractions, to do the things she loved.

Being invisible to her peers had its benefits. She never felt the pressure, so she never learned to care about that, certain, particular thing. A special something, that most people her age obsessed over. An adventure others made cheap. Trivial. Insignificant. By their words and their deeds.

Sex. That's what they weighed their reputations by. It was the same priority they used to judge her, against their normalcy.

She didn’t worry about having it. She didn’t want it. She had other things, in her life, to occupy her time.

Exciting and fun things.

Her weekly Dungeons and Dragons game. Visiting museums and planetariums. Going shopping for a new piece to add to her collection. Painting miniatures. And truly the best of all...

the updated stories on her favorite Star Wars fandom sites.

She really loved her Star Wars.

Han and Chewy had helped her through some very trying times.

Luke and Leia. They gave her life.

No, Wendy Serafina never worried about sex. She didn’t want it. She was a very strange girl that way.

So her friends always say. Acquaintances actually. Co-workers and casual neighbors at best.

Twenty three years old and still a virgin? Strange girl.

The people that flittered in and out of her life, at work, at school, at play, they just couldn’t understand it.

She wasn’t interested in sex? Who isn't interested in sex?

That was her sanctuary. That was her truth.

It was also, her greatest and smallest of lies. It was her only lie.

It’s not that she didn’t want it. She just didn’t worry about it. There had never been any persuasion put upon her to go that course. She'd been marginalized, a long time before they even knew what it was. Or that such a thing existed.

You see, when she was much younger, she was a bigger girl. She was klutzy and somewhat uncoordinated. They called her lots of things. Fatso, spaz, nerd and ugly, to name a few.

Her tormentor's favorites, Wendelephant or Elephina. Isn't that clever. Seems, little humans were at their creative best when they decided to tease, parenthetically. Truth be told, adults aren't all that much better.

She had developed quite a number of tics through those years. She slurred or stuttered when she got nervous. Mostly around boys she thought were cute. Even some of the more handsome girls, she saw roaming the dorms. In her college days.

Sometimes she’d twitch. Especially If someone got a little too close, too fast. A sudden flinch like they were going to hit her. Not, that she’d ever been beaten up, no one had ever laid a finger on her. Not literally. But the things that she’d been called had hurt her just the same.

No less painfully than a slap to the face.

She slouched when she sat. Sometimes she talked to herself. To hear out a problem and find it's solution. It was always, right there, right on the tip of her tongue.

By and large, she was just awkward. And socially unaware. She never learned to read the map of personal interactions. And her GPS? You'd swear it was made on a different planet.

But the biggest thing Wendy Serafina was unaware about. Was just how beautiful a woman she had become. Although, in her defense, you’d really have to look hard to see it.

Past the hung head and slumped shoulders. Past the frumpy clothes that were too loose, in colors too bland. She thought she was bigger than she was and it showed. Her closet was filled with oversized fashion. Three sizes too large on the average.

She was a strange girl.

A very strange girl.

Even some people, she didn’t know, called her that.

The ones that did, who made it their business, never saw her with anyone special. She even went to dinner, plays and movies, all by herself.

All alone.

And she never joined in, or paid much attention to, those bawdy conversations they, boisterously, loved to tell. Of boyfriends and lovers. Or even the tawdry one night stands

Quickies in the parking lot. She heard the beginnings of so many of those tales.

But, she didn't have any lore of her own. No, first time quips. No, pool table at a graduation yarn. She didn't even have a first kiss soliloquy. Not that she would share it if she did.

She had never had sex. Never gotten the chance. How could she, when she never got courted. Never mind, even, hit on.

At least, as far as Wendy Serafina was concerned.

Everyone around her thought her to be prudish, super-religious. Some even toyed with the diagnosis, frigid.

They were wrong.

She just didn’t want to have it. Not according to her creed. The way she presented herself.

She was a liar.

She did want to have it.

Yearned for it some nights.

She'd have a fleeting moment of anxiousness, a fluttering in her stomach, an uncomfortable ache, between her thighs, that needed to be put to bay.

And it was, rather easily, by that galaxy... far, far away.

She did though. Want to have sex. She knew it. At least, there was a part of her that did.

She just didn’t want the kind of sex they talked about. Or the kind of thing she saw them do in porn. That wasn't very much different though. It just had less meaning. No emotional ties. She didn't like that.

Nor did she like the plagiarized romantic fluff. The princess and her silvery knight. The starry eyed lovers. The maiden and the pirate lost at sea. No. None of that. That was way, way too...

Poofy.

What Wendy Serafina wanted, was the kind of sex she could have with a friend. Someone who wanted the same kind of sex with her. Unselfish. Healing.

So here she was, on a Friday, three months after her twenty fourth birthday. She'd just bought herself something new. As a treat for finishing an assignment for work.

A reward for coming in way before the deadline.

She was taking her time. Enjoying the scenery for a change.

She went to find a quiet place, to sit and commune with her brand new toys. She did that quite often. She crossed over some tall grass and stepped into a familiar clearing.

And Wendy Serafina, saw a man.

By himself.

He was fixated on a point of light, on the water just off the shoreline. On the very same bench she was heading for.

No one, but her, ever sat there. It was a secluded spot. Off the overgrown, unkempt path she used to walk down sometimes. When she came home from the library with a book to read.

Or the gamer shop, where she bought her dice.

Like the ones she'd bought today.

Black onyx with glowing blue symbols.

Perfectly balanced.

Perfectly dark.

Perfectly icy.

A complimentary essence to the character she played.

An Aasimar.

Raven Queen's favored.

A dark winter warrior from a bleak, frozen continent.

She lovingly fingered the dice in her pocket. Rolled one around, then pulled it out eagerly. Eying her fingers.

She slowly uncupped her hand to see the outcome. The die sat, right there, in the middle of her palm. A stark contrast to her pale skin. Revealing to her, a fated first figure. A random outcome for a character's action.

It was a twenty.

A natural number.

The deliberate check she'd chosen to pick was perception.

She stopped and stared at the number for a moment, curiously intrigued. She put the die back in her pocket. Then she stood there, silent, looking back at the man with regard. Taking him in.

He was a bit older. Maybe early forties. He was wearing new jeans and a button down shirt. He looked like he needed a trim. But those thoughts didn’t cross her mind.

That's not what she saw.

All she saw, was his aura.

It wasn't a mystical glow only she could see. It was a physical read. A graphic illustration within the pause of a chapter. And what she saw, was the way he stared at the world. Looking past it. Like there wasn’t anything left there to see. It had no substance. No solidity. His eyes looked through it, unfocused on something beyond.

Or maybe within.

He was sad. Melancholy.

She might even say, 'he looked a little bit broken.'

She saw herself. Once, long ago. With a similar look. That same empty gaze. It happened more than once. Quite a few times actually. But this one had struck out and come to the fore.

His eyes half open, looking down. Not blinking. Almost blank. She knew how that felt.

She knew, exactly, how that felt.

Even if it wasn't for the same reason, she could tell the ache was the same. That vacant taste in the heart didn't change just because the source was different.

So Wendy Serafina did something, that Wendy Serafina had never, not even once, ever done before. She saddled on up to the open seat and sat right down. With a thump. Uncomfortably close to the sullen eyed man. The sad, broken man.

And then

She just said, “Hi.”

He turned to her slowly, caught unawares at the break in his thought. This sudden intrusion into the shadow of his malaise. Like a flash of light in a pitch black void, she'd drawn his attention. Showed him a way.

He saw empathy looking back. A compassionate gaze.

He forced a smile. A forlorn and almost forgotten smile.

She felt her heart ache.

She felt herself, back in a dark, dreary day. Sitting in a playground. On a see-saw alone.

Inconsolable.

Forsaken.

Many hours after a boy had told her to meet him there.

Tears still falling, glistening her cheeks. The laughter of the other children still slamming in her ears.

What a stupid girl she was.

What a stupid, silly girl.

But Wendy Serafina was not that same girl. Not anymore.

A strange girl, yes, but not, that, girl. This one was stronger. Wiser. A survivor.

So she leaned back to the bench and put her shoulder next to his. And just talked.

Without, her usual nervous slur.

She would have found it odd. If she had noticed.

Or maybe not. She wasn’t interested in him that way. Not that she paid too much attention to such things. Even if she was, it didn’t matter. Right now, she just wanted to listen.

To hear.

Misery always did love company. Because misery hates itself. And company usually chased it away. Ended it. Yes, sometimes it made it worse. But misery didn't care.

She learned, through the minutes of conversation he shared, that he had lost his wife. Just over a year ago.

They’d known each other since they were five.

Became friends.

Became lovers.

Became family.

Then one day she got really sick. And a few weeks later she suddenly passed.

Breast cancer. It ran in her family.

She was young.

The doctors missed it.

The more the man talked, the more she could see the love that he had felt for her. It was honest. His description of her detailed.

She wished she had met her. She almost felt like she knew her. They could have been friends.

She knew her favorite flower and color.

Desert Rose.

Cerulean Blue.

She knew all the geeky things she'd been into. There were a few of the same things she enjoyed.

The man changed his focus and talked of her family. They were the reason he was here. A couple of days with his... in-laws? His plane left tomorrow, to take him back to a lonely house.

Maybe he’d sell it.

The memories. You know?

The annual family reunion was over. He loved them dearly, she could tell. Though he didn’t feel quite at home there anymore.

Not without her.

It was too desolate. Disconnected.

No more jovial prodding for grand-kids. Too many pitying shoulder grabs. Too many dropped smiles when they didn't see her near him.

There was a rumble. Her stomach growled loudly. She'd gotten hungry.

So she asked the man if he would like to come with her. To her place. Have something to eat. In a more comfortable setting. So, he wouldn’t have to wallow in his hotel room. All alone. That's what she told herself.

He realized he had eaten very little, maybe food would help fuel his way out of this haze.

He said,"Yes."

They left the park. Strode down the cobblestone path. Walking side by side and chatting. They had very little in common.

He was a Star Trek fan.

Blasphemous.

An argument ensued. Playful and raucous. They were both laughing, a bit too loud, by the time they got to the strange girls door. She put her key to the lock.

A slow deep breath.

A slower exhale.

He didn't even notice.

He was going to be her first guest. The first person, besides herself, to cross that threshold.

A quick tour of her home. It was essential. Everybody should know where the bathroom was. The fridge. And the couch.

She found a bottle of wine. Someone gave it to her for her birthday. She never opened it. She never drank. You think they'd know this.

Well she did, once.

High school. Senior year. She ended the night, curled up in a ball. Throwing up all over her next door neighbor's lawn.

But that was then. When she was still a silly girl.

She made a quick salad, grabbed yesterdays pork chops. Heated them up and poured two glasses of wine.

She escorted him, out through the sliding glass door, to her screened in porch.

“Wendy Serafina,”

It’s how she introduced herself.

Not just to him.

To everyone.

His name was William. And she rather liked to call him that. Not Bill. Not Will.

William.

It played well with her RPG sensibilities. And it rolled off her tongue rather nicely. She thought.

She put the plates on a table, barely big enough for two. They sat, ate and chat. Familiarly congenial. Watching the sun, slowly go down.

Just as that bright yellow orb was starting to sink below the tree tops and the sky was firing red on the horizon, she took the plates from the table. To make some more room. Free up the clutter.

She walked back through the door a few seconds later. Returning with the bottle of wine in her hand.

She stepped next to the man, to refill his empty glass, and heard a sound.

A warble.

A sob.

A choke that broke the persistence of a sigh.

Then she saw the wetness under his eye. A streak.

She grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped the man’s cheek. Kneeling down on one knee by his side.

Here they were.

Eye to eye.

Her head up and straight. Her smile comforting.

He saw her. And she saw him.

She studied his face. Comparing his features to the heroes described in the books she read. And she decided, then and there, that he was a rather good looking man.

In a Han Solo sorta way.

A little scruffy. A little rugged.

With a tiny little bit of that Skywalker kid’s shyness.

And if there was anything Wendy Serafina was an expert on, it was shyness.

With her hand on his chest she leaned in and gave him a hug. She wondered if it was too soon. Then too long. Was this getting awkward for him?

It wasn't for her.

The man didn’t seem to mind either. He seemed appreciative. Warm.

He hugged her back. Just as kindly.

When she willed away, from that softhearted embrace, she didn’t pull back. Not very far.

The man took her hand from his chest, surrounding it with both of his. Brought it to his chin. And just held it.

He kissed her fingers.

Then Wendy Serafina slowly stood up. Deliberate. Tall.

Resolute.

Pulling the man up and onto his feet. To her, and away from his sorrow.

She purposefully walked with him. Together. To her room.

She threw the clothes from her bed and sat down.

He nervously joined her. A few inches away. She never let go of his hand.

She picked her feet up and laid down. Over the crumpled up blankets. Kicking her shoes off. She put her head on her pillow. Then gently pulled at his wrist and chaperoned him.

An invitation, to be by her side.

They cuddled together. Tenderly. For awhile.

Then she kissed him. And he kissed her back.

When Wendy Serafina awoke, the next morning, her bed was empty. She was alone.

She felt conflicted.

On the one hand, she felt wonderful. Her skin was still flush. Her body was filled with a warm, energized, laziness. She felt attractive. Revived.

From the moment they kissed an awakening, to the moment they kissed a blissful sweet dream, he had been doting. Attentive. Sensitive and caring.

His touch had been a very nice mix, of sensual, exploring and passionate.

And even though he didn’t know it was her first time,

She had never told him. And he wouldn’t have been able to tell, physically. She had broken herself, there, one day, long ago. On a balance beam at school.

Gymnastics.

She hated it.

He treated her like it was her first time, anyway. Or maybe like it was his first time, in a long time.

Or both their first times. Together. With each other.

It didn’t matter to her. It was how she always knew it could be.

With a friend. Or a comfortable stranger. This stranger.

A solemn stranger and a very strange girl.

Still, except for herself and her thoughts, her bed was empty.

And that was the other emotion. Empty

She knew he had to leave today. After all, he did have a plane to catch. This wasn't his home.

But the sun was barely peeking at the day. And he hadn’t woken her up? Even if just, to say goodbye?

She just laid on her back. Feeling the sway. That disparate ebb and flow of the feelings running through her. She was staring at the clouds.

Then she heard it. A sound, unaccustomed to her atmosphere. It tugged her interest.

She thought she heard footsteps. Gentle, rhythmic, thumps, against the hardwood floor that led back to her room. Was someone humming?

And then she smelled...

Coffee?

She turned away from the window and saw his clothes, still on the chair by her nightstand.

A tear crept from her eye. She'd been holding it back. Now it flowed past her chin for a much different emotion.

His silhouette emerged from the frame of her door.

He had a platter.

Two cups, handles toward her.

A stack of pancakes.

Some bacon and eggs.

Breakfast in bed. She’d never thought to do that before.

Well she did. But she'd never had anyone to share it with.

He saw her awake and he smiled.

They ate and they cuddled, feeding each other. They talked about the knickknacks on her shelves.

Winter's warrior. Serenity in Lego. Her minis inspired.

Okay. He had a little bit of taste.

Then they continued, what they had shared last night. All night, turned into all morning.

She knew, come tomorrow, she would be uncomfortably sore. There was no doubt in her mind about that. But she didn’t care. She wanted him more and more and more.

She wanted as much as he could offer her.

His plane was leaving at ten that night. He had to be at the airport by nine. He asked her her plans.

She didn’t have any.

It was Saturday.

‘Silly Man, Strange girls, like me, don't have Saturday plans.’

They showered together. Dressed each other quickly. Then went out to greet the rest of the day.

He took her shopping. He was a bit surprised to find out, she'd never worn a bikini before.

Swim class had been a one piece

In a YMCA pool.

She had no other reason to own one.

Nobody asked her to those kinds of places you'd need one for.

He took her, by cab, to a popular beach. They swam and sunned. Ate hotdogs. Drank lemonade.

He said, “Thank you.”

And asked if he could write her.

Not an Email.

A letter.

She never had a pen pal. Yet, she liked the idea. Always wanted one.

She had an affinity towards most handwritten things. She liked the flow of the ink on the page. There was emotion in it. A sense you didn’t quite get from static perfection of fonts. Subtle nuances in the pressure and pen strokes.

And emojis? They were just stupid. ‘You can take your eggplant. And shove it right up your peach.’ As far as she was concerned.

She was a strange girl.

She said, “Thank you, too.”

While cuddling next to him, her head to his chest, her body wrapped up in his arm, listening to his heart beat and breathing, Wendy Serafina did something. Something that the people that knew her would say, for her, was scandalous. Out of character. She slid her hand down to his crotch and squeezed him. Fondly. With acquaintance and want.

Then she kissed him. Deep and passionate.

She broke the buss and demurely angled a question. Inviting them both to his room.

He agreed.

It was just around the corner. So she jumped on his back and he carried her there. Her back was to the door while he put the code in. She nibbled his jaw with her arms surrounding him. She was up on her toes.

They made love in between packing. After an early dinner. In the shower.

It’s a story she’ll never share. It’s hers. And his.

And their the only ones that needs to know it.

His limo driver was waiting outside. Ten minutes before they finished drying and dressing each other.

They dressed slowly, this time.

One last touch.

One last taste.

One last tease.

He arrived at the airport, barely on time. He seemed disappointed, to have made it at all.

He did what he had to to check himself in and not have to pass through security. She sat with him. Until he absolutely needed to go.

His flight came up on the departure screen.

A long final embrace. They went their own way.

As he was stowing his bag in the overhead compartment, she was settled into the backseat of a limo. Watching the trees flow by.

He’d paid the driver to wait and drive her home, make sure she was safe.

He'd tipped him well.

He pulled up by the curb, in front of her building, then walked around the side and got her door out. She thanked him and shook his hand.

Her fingers paused before they turned the key in the tumbler. Thinking about the day. More than a day. There were a lot of firsts in that day.

She closed the door behind her and stepped, breezily, to her room. Stripping off her clothes as she walked down the hall.

She left the bikini on.

She got to her bed and face planted. Right into the spot where he had been the night before. And this morning. She imagined his warmth. Still there. Right where his scent was.

She breathed in deep.

She slept like the dead.

The dead with a grin.

Wendy Serafina doesn’t think about sex. She’s a strange girl. That’s what everybody says.

That’s a lie. But it's not her lie anymore.

She thinks about it from time to time. Always had. She just doesn’t worry about it.

But even she, sometimes, gets a bit antsy.

Like that one night at the movies. It was A Knight’s Tale. One of a series of films in a fantasy themed weekend. She had the whole row to herself. Perfectly centered, two rows up from the back.

It took her quiet a few minutes before she realized why her legs were rubbing together. Why her bottom was wriggling, grinding against her seat.

Then she heard it. And it clicked.

“Don't be foolish, William, you just follow your feet.”

Just a name.

Just a memory.

A memory that played devious tricks on the brain. Among other parts.

She also began to notice, something new in her world. It had started the day after that, fateful, one night... two day stand?

She was getting hit on.

A lot.

She wonders, "Why?" It's a second or two, of silence, before she, politely, declines.

She has no time for it.

And he has her address.

Maybe next year he’ll have a reason, besides a reunion, to visit. Extend his stay. They could go camping. He liked camping. She's never been. Not by choice. She'd like to see the stars with him.

But that doesn’t matter.

Not at all. She had a night. A day to remember.

A time with someone who liked her as much as she had truly liked him. It's there, in his words. Written on paper that had no lines. It didn't need them. She could read between them, just the same.

It’s nine weeks to the day, from when he asked to write her. And the letters? They still come.

Not every week.

About three a month.

Who has time for that.

She sure doesn’t.

They go out of their way to make time for that.

That’s what makes it special.

Make an effort, get away from the tech, sit and think about who you’re writing to. Then you, thoughtfully, compose.

She goes to the post to pick up her mail. A new project at work spinning the wheels of her mind. A boy two boxes over offers to buy her coffee. From out of nowhere. She tells him she's sorry. But she's just too damn busy.

She shuts the box and pulls out the key. Stowing the letters in her bag while she leaves.

It's lunchtime. She gets to the diner. She orders two hotdogs and gets asked out by the waiter. He's not new. He's served her many times.

She’s puzzled.

Amused.

Curious.

Just what has changed?

Well, if she ever bothered to look in the mirror, for anything more than to see if her hair was a mess, she just might see it. Part of the answer at least.

It’s written within the curves of her face. In that sly smile. That look she has, like she’s both halves of an inside joke.

A wit the rest of the world isn't in on.

Or, how she stands a little taller. Straighter.

It’s how the clothes she now buys tend to fit her a little better. It’s not on purpose. They just feel more comfortable this way. They remind her of his touch. His warmth. His hug.

They’re still bland. But they're fitting. The muted colors make her eyes stand out.

She still wears no make up. So that hasn’t changed

But now she watches where she’s going. Her heads up. Instead of staring at her feet, watching the pavement and the tips of her shoes.

You can see her face now. And, the beguiling look to her eyes. It was always there.

Just covered by hair. And In the past, she unwittingly, could make herself lost in the crowd. A spectre, shifted out of their visual wavelength.

She walks on the sand of a less populous beach.

The spring in her step

denied her experience

pain is a glacier

She finds a place set off and away from the masses. By herself.

It’s her comfort zone.

She lays her towel out, reclines on her side and sorts through her mail.

There's an autographed picture,

Fennic Shand.

A bill.

A paycheck.

And a letter.

A fresh postmarked stamp

No return name or address.

She does it the same.

She recognizes the writing. But she got a letter from him two days ago? This is something new.

Anxiously, but carefully, she opens the seal and reads what's inside.

She pulls out a paper and pen from her backpack. And thinks on a heartfelt reply.

Her eyes turn up, in a big cheeky grin.

She starts to scribe.

She folds the letter just right and slips it into an envelope. It's pre-addressed to her friend. She'll finish the response to the one she was replying to later. This one... has urgency.

As she’s stowing her answer into her pack, to keep it neat and tidy, she hears a whistle.

A hey! Come on over!

Two boys, standing by the waves, are calling out to her. To swim. To have fun in the sun with them.

‘When it rains, It pours,’ She muses to herself.

She waves, shakes her head, then lays back on her blanket. Enjoying the warmth on her skin. Wondering what costumes to make for the con. And what New Years night has in store.

At the con!

It finally sunk in.

She joyously pumps her feet and hands to the sand. She’s going to con.

In Hawaii.

With him.

“What a strange girl,” the shorter boy says to the taller. He thought he was quiet. But the wind carried his words to her ear.

And Wendy Serafina.

Quite frankly,

Agrees.

"Maybe I’ll be blasphemous and be Jaylah for New Years. I'd love to see the look on William’s face. Oooh, better yet, a Mandalorian. Yeah! I could hide Jaylah under that. A surprise disrobing, for after the feast. When we're back in our room," she says, quietly, but still out loud.

Then she thinks, reminiscent on herself, and she smiles, ‘Wendy Serafina, you’re a strange girl. A very strange girl, indeed.’