I tiredly lifted my head from yet another query letter I was re-typing for the umpteenth time.

I'd written so many versions this month that I didn't believe them myself anymore!

Grrr!

Why did you have to write a letter when submitting something to a publisher? I hoped whoever had invented the idea would die a slow and extremely painful death.

A southbound Red Line thundered by—both trains at full speed. Even if he were in it, there'd be no time whatsoever to connect.

Mr. Ruffles Bunny was a thing of my past.

And that was fine with me.

It had to be.

I had accepted I would never discover what my meet-cute Train Man was like. Or hear what his voice sounded like.

On the day I had learned he had a family, after my storytelling session, I had gone out of the "Million Year Picnic," and had bought a hot dog from a street vendor.

I had caught a glimpse of myself in the dented metal of the food cart.

Hey, Iris. I had saluted myself. You look good, girl. And you will get past this. You have to look on the bright side! There is always a train ride home.

There will be someone new for you.

It's not the end of the world. It never is.

Maybe he was there to show me Jayden was not the only one, like I used to think.

To teach me I can be attractive to other people. That there were plenty of other fish in the sea.

But he brought colors into your life, the abandoned puppy inside me had whined. Colors are everything to you, in this colorless Boston.

But colors could be found anywhere. I lifted my chin and tossed back my Unicorn Frappuccino mane.

One just had to know where to look for them.

And who better to bring colors into this life than an illustrator herself?

I had decided to focus on my illustration project and forget about the Family Guy.

'Fairy Tails' had a new protagonist now. He'd never be as good as the one I had erased some months ago. But he'd do the job, alright. And that was all that mattered.

I had, of course, studied the Four Giants whose artistic shoulders everyone wanted to stand on.

Marvel, DC, Dark Horse, and Image Comics.

Image was my top pick. They did not contract creators as the other three did, to slave away for them on their corporate projects like dark elves slaving in the mines. Never to see the sun of personal creativity.

No, Image Comics was different. They were only interested in publishing original content.

And my content was original to boot.

I so hoped Image Comics would appreciate that.

This endless query letters typing and retyping frenzy—this was the first step on that journey.

With a last glance at the destination address of my cover letter, [email protected], I took a deep breath and clicked the Send button.

Okey-dokey. That was it. My query was launched.

Good luck, Fairy Tails.

Momma loves ya!

Not that you need it, because you're fucking awesome.

Now get in there like you own the bitch!

Go go go go go!

If it worked out... If Image Comics wrote back asking for details about my project. If this thing kicked off...

It might mean goodbye to the Million Dollar Picnic.

And that comic book shop was all I really knew in life.

I leaned far back in my train seat, breathing in and out deeply, trying to relax.

A pimply teen couple sitting opposite me was vigorously playing the game that I imagined to be called "Let's engage in just about enough PDA to make everyone around us feel extremely uncomfortable."

I hated to admit it, but they were winning.

Aaaaargh! There is nothing more nauseating than people sucking each other's faces!

That is, when you have no face to suck on.

Not even our train pulling into a station and braking abruptly stopped these two from their bold exploration of uncharted territories.

"Next stop: Charles/MGH," the speaker announced as coolly and levelly just as it had announced "Next stop: Park St." And the "Next stop: Downtown Crossing" before that.

Yet the other two stops did not make my heart wildly hop in my ribcage like a fuzzy little bunny.

And speaking of bunnies...

More than two months later...

He was there!

My Train Man Friend.

His suit was as grey as this November morning. His gaze rested on his lap.

Maybe he was reading?

I secretly enjoyed those incognito seconds. Being able to sneakily watch him before he noticed me.

He lifted his eyebrows at whatever he saw there between his knees.

It was just precious. This chance to see him raw and unfiltered. Untainted by the perception of the other.

Something made him look towards my train.

When he recognized me, his facial expression instantly transformed into a huge welcoming grin.

A fuzzy little bunny that was my heart hopped even wilder. 

He was happy to see me!

He quickly lifted a finger into the air as if telling me to wait. Then he hoisted his tablet.

Its dark screen showed a gorgeous, curvy woman in a dark-blue skirt, hoisting a huge broadsword while her computer-animated black hair swayed left and right in a wind of bits and bytes. An orange number—it was 977—blinked in its corner.

It was some kind of a... gaming app? And I'd know that sword and skirt anywhere.

Mr. Puzzles first pointed at the screen and then at himself.

What did it all mean?

Was he playing a Wonder Woman app because he had seen me in that costume, in June?

Was that weird, or cute? I decided on cute—after all, he was showing me his pastime favorite.

My brain was usainbolting.

Welp, I should show him something, too. Something about me.

But what?!

Quick, Iris! The train must be about to leave, you dimwit!

I hastily clicked on my Wacom and fired up "Fairy Tails."

I guessed I could show him at least one of my illustrations.

"Synching with Cloud..." Wacom informed me, and I tapped my foot impatiently.

Dammit, the train could really leave at any moment!

When synching finally finished, my mouth fell open.

No way!

It was the former version!

His illustration, it was back!

Magical ruffly hair, Pinnochio-eagle-sex nose, carrot-in-hand, and everything!

The Cloud had backed it up!

Secretly thanking the cloudy heavens above, I held the tablet against the mushy window.

Mr. Ruffles' mouth formed a non-kinky Big O when he saw the illustration.

He first pointed at me as if wanting to make sure I drew it.

I nodded proudly. I loved my art.

"Attention all passengers. Due to track work preparations, we are experiencing a few-minutes delay."

Preparations for what track work?

Who the fuck cares, Iris? Just enjoy the time with Mr. Ruffles Bunny.

So that was what I did, craning my neck to peek around Pimply Teen No 1.

His trademarked Ruffled Hair and Hot Stubble were back, despite the suit he was wearing.

Pimply Teen No 2 joined her friend at the window, and they resumed their happy-go-lucky mouth wrestling, this time standing.

They seemed even ready to go to the second base, going at each other without a care in the world.

I outright envied them.

I wanted what they had.

Mr. Ruffles was now looking at them too, a blush creeping up his neck.

Then, very slowly, he tore his gaze away from the horny couple and pointed at my t-shirt.

I saw him grab his tablet once again.

He seemed to be scribbling something in Fast & Furious fashion. Mere seconds later, he lifted the device up in the air.

On the screen, it said:

AND YOUR FIANCE?

It took me a moment and a glance at my tee to get his question—oh, I wore the one announcing I was single and ready for a pringle.

I snorted, covering my mouth, which earned me an irritated glance from Pimply Teen No 1.

My pen moved on my Wacom out of its own accord.

DUMPED HIM!

I added a kicking leg drawing and a hastily sketched garbage bin with three vertical lines above it to indicate its smelliness.

I held the device against the window, next to Pimply Teen No 1's buttocks, and Mr. Ruffles' mouth drew into a broad smile at the sight. He held up his thumb.

What?

Why would he care? Did Mr. Ruffles harbor thoughts of adultery?

Deciding for another, this time scolding and scalding message, I hastily wrote back:

AND YOUR WIFE?

He paused.

I swallowed.

This whole exchange felt so surreal. It was like participating in a tv quiz, fighting for the grand prize, where each answer could be oh so right or oh so wrong.

He wrote on his tablet again. Seconds passed like eons.

My heart beat a TamTam D'Afrique rhythm.

Mr. Ruffles lifted the device slowly, keeping his gaze trained on mine, his expression serious and earnest.

DIVORCED!

Never had simple eight letters on a screen brought me more joy.

At that moment, my train lunged forward like a tunnel beast going for its prey.

His mouth opened, and he shook his head.

The careless efficiency of Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority ripped the very un-married Mr. Ruffles' face from me.