I was with Gerry and Rich, waiting in line for the Warehouse 13 panel at DragonCon, when I saw her. I mean, I’d seen her several minutes earlier when she got in line behind us, but I didn’t notice her badge right away, I only admired her cosplay; she and her friend were probably both dressed as different characters from the same show I’d never seen. Then someone came along and asked them if he could take their photo, and they posed for him, and I got a glimpse of her con badge when she turned: “Aimee Brightwing” in large print, with her legal name and hometown in smaller print that I couldn’t read quickly. Here I was standing next to one of my favorite living authors, and I couldn’t say anything.

I mean, it would probably be okay. Probably. But Gerry and Rich didn’t know the kinds of things I read in private, and I didn’t want them to know. They might not mind, they probably wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to risk our friendship over it. And if I said to her, “I love your stories!” or something similarly coherent, it might lead to awkward questions later. “What all has she written?” Gerry might ask, and “Which of her books do you recommend I try first?” Rich would add. And what could I say?

But maybe I should. Aimee probably didn’t get much if any in-person validation about her work; online comments weren’t the same. And I’d probably never get another chance. With the tens of thousands of people crowding into these hotels this weekend, it wasn’t likely I’d run into her again when my friends weren’t around, and there was only one day of the con left.

On the other hand she was engrossed in conversation with her friend, and might not want to be interrupted.

On the gripping hand...

I cleared my throat.