Meeting.

Meeting.
I lived in the city, like so many others my age, away from my family as I tried to face my own way in life. I got a tiny little grungy apartment and filled it with plants and books and paint, seeing the space I had created for myself come to life. During Winter, I curled up with no less than a million blankets, a mug of hot chocolate wrapped in my hands. You’d have to pry them apart to make me let it go. Whenever it rained, it would leak slightly through the window, so I set a bucket on one side and myself on the other, watching the life below. There wasn’t much to see. Just an alley with the back of a brick building, people hurrying in and out of the downpour.
Until I saw you.
You didn’t have any sort of rain protection, obviously caught off guard by the storm, your arms were full of papers and your body was desperately trying to shield them from rain drops. I watched as you ran, ran, ran, and then fell.
The papers scattered everywhere, into every puddle in sight, soaking through instantly.
I threw off my blankets and ran down the staircase as fast as I could. I don’t know why. I had a need to help you.
I flung myself out into the rain and towards you, pulling sodden pages out of the wet, and I quickly gathered up the papers near me, gesturing for you to come inside. You looked up at me, hair pressed flat against your face, drops rolling down every surface, and smiled gratefully, cradling the ruined bundle in your arms.
We laid the pages on my floor and you took some of my dry clothes. We hung your clothes from the line in the corner, where the drips would feed the plants underneath, and carefully went over every page with my hairdryer, fixing up ink where it was running. It was fun, and you introduced yourself and I me, and I made you hot chocolate and gave you a blanket to sit by the window, as we waited for your clothes to dry. I don’t remember what we talked about. Just how animated and alive your face got when you were telling stories, laughing until my sides hurt, throwing marshmallows at each other.
When you left, a couple hours later, after the rain had stopped, you thanked me profusely and promised to pay me back, but I refused. It was nothing, I told you. You smiled again, that warm, homely smile, and disappeared into the dark.
I cleared up the mugs and wiped the dripped water. I gathered up the missed marshmallows and folded the blankets.
You left your sweatshirt behind. I ran to the window to see if I could give it back, but you had already gone, whisked away like you were nothing more than my imagination, except for the physical proof in my hands.
I turned back to face my apartment, hugging the now dry sweatshirt to my chest. Maybe you’d come back for it. Maybe I’d see you again.
I noticed a scrap of white against the wood of my counter.
Picking it up slowly, I saw a number, and messy handwriting.
“It was nice meeting you.”