Annaline was French and liked to write by hand. She bought me an expensive fountain pen once and introduced me to the weird art of handwriting. It’s a nice detail that I always associate with Annaline.

The night before she left we attended an art gallery downtown. Some friend of a friend put on an eclectic show at a space and to be supportive we dropped in. Annaline asked me to hold her bag while she went to the bathroom and when I glanced inside I saw an envelope with my name on it and a pack of LuxExact Cigarettes. Cigarettes?

I ignored the mystery of the envelope and focused on the larger mystery of the cigarettes. My stomach sank. Not because she smoked but because I didn’t know she smoked. It felt like I didn’t know her, like I discovered a secret.

Annaline returned to France tomorrow. Her internship here was over. We went out last night too, just got a quick meal to celebrate her time in the States. We agreed this friendship, this thing, would have to end. We agreed. WE agreed. It was a mutual agreement.

We braved the biting wintry air during the walk back to the train and talked about the art. It sucked. At least they served drinks. Weak drinks but they were drinks.

“Art should make us react,” she growled, “not TELL US TO REACT.” Her opinions were fierce and formidable. I tried to keep up.

“Guy needed to practice sewing up his lips,” I added. The friend of the friend — the artist — was present, invading everyone’s space and cawing about his crummy doodles. I might have liked them if he wasn’t giving smug speeches about the work. Whatever. I was an artist and Annaline was an artist and if we both hated one thing it was artists.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she said bashfully, leaning into me with a reluctant half-embrace. The most affection from her I’d ever seen, or the most she was willing to grant me. “I had to be there.”

“Ah no problem, that was fun,” I lied. It was not fun and we both knew it. I tried to catch a scent of smoke when we touched. “Well the art sucked but thanks for the drink.”

“Two nights in a row, huh.”

“I know.”

“Doing anything tomorrow?”

The train arrived with a screechy roar and we shuffled inside. Her home was a few stops before mine but we would have a couple more minutes in each other’s company. I realized in six months I never saw where she lived. I didn’t know how we would say goodbye. Usually it was a casual see-ya-later.

We faced each other and leaned against two poles in the middle of the train car. Normally conversation was effortless but tonight the only sound between us was the clicking of the track and another passenger humming his tuneless homeless anthem. All my thoughts remained trapped. This moment felt like a delicate thing, like it could break. Her stop came and she hesitated. “Okay, goodnight. Goodbye.”

“Okay come here.” I gave her another hug, pretending this was not the last time I would see Annaline and her sharp humor and long hair and glinting blue eyes and disheveled but unique clothes. “Talk soon?” We wouldn’t. We agreed.

“I wrote this for you.” She pulled the folded envelope out of her bag and handed it to me, avoiding my eyes. “I rewrote it five times. Read it tomorrow. Bye.”

I looked at my name on the envelope, elegantly written with her fountain pen. As the train pulled away I watched Annaline walk down the platform. Before she disappeared she pulled out her cigarettes. Why had she never smoked around me?