And Then She Left

Chapter 2

10:03 am

The young man had set up his laptop, sipping his coffee. 

He had laid in the bed last night before finally drifting off into foggy, dreamless sleep as he did every night. Except for one small problem: He didn't finally find sleep till late. He assumed it had been about one in the morning when he finally did, the caffeine finally emptying out of his bloodstream. Therefore, the morning had come way too early for his liking. But schedules were schedules, and he didn't miss a beat getting up.

The park was silent today, and the young man immediately got to work. He didn't care why the children were there yesterday, or why they weren't there that day. He was simply satisfied that they weren't here to disrupt his life again.

Read. Select, backspace. Retype. Reread, sip coffee. Backspace, retype. Move on.

Mechanical and dead, he gazed at the blinking line. Why? Why was he doing this? Why did he even care anymore?

A resonating laugh resounded across the virtually silent park. A young woman's laugh.

The young man looked up in anger. Today was supposed to be catch up for the work he couldn't get done the day before. He searched for the culprit, tempted to get up and demand the woman take her obnoxiously loud self out of his area of the park.

Then he spotted her.

More accurately the back of her. But definitely her.

~~~

He held the paper bag tightly, waiting at the crosswalk. The rain was pouring harder and faster, blurring the lights of cars. puddles splashed, creating waves of clear, jeweled, flying pearls. He tapped his foot impatiently and shivered slightly. The wind was biting and cold. April, and it was still trench coat season.

"These are a few of my favorite things-"

The young man stopped shivering.

"Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens-"

A clear, melodic voice echoed off the streets, creating warmth of it's own. The singing was beautiful. The tone and notes were perfectly sang. Pitch perfect. She continued to sing, the mysterious vocalist, and goosebumps ran up the young man's arms, shiver's down his spine.

As he passed the tabby cat on his way home, he found himself absently humming, tone deaf and side tracked. He cleared his throat and stopped abruptly.

What nonsense.

~~~

He was lying on his back on the bed. For once, not forcing himself to chase unattainable sleep.

Dark brown hair. Dark as rich Switzerland chocolate. Curled and flowing. Like a river of fertile soil. It reached down her back, blowing slightly in the damp wind. He didn't know why he hadn't told her off. She had been talking to an elderly lady that often sat on a quilt in the shaded field, cross-stitching. She had talked in a bubbly tone. He didn't ever understand her words, but there was definitely joy and love in them for a woman she didn't even know.

It confused the young man, to the point where not another word could be written that day. Another failed attempt. All because of her.

He would've normally been furious, but this was different somehow. He couldn't place it.

Sitting up, he reached over the edge of his bed, slid his laptop out of the messenger bag and opened up his Word Office. Staring at the blinking line for a moment, he started to write. He wrote about the colors that surrounded her, the sound her voice made as it mingled with singing birds. Had there always been birds singing? He couldn't tell. Her voice had only amplified their songs, becoming strengthened by her caring voice. He wrote about the woman's wizened, old hands, carefully stitching a stunning sunset over the sea.

And as he slept that night, he saw gentle orange hues, and a burbling, happy lake of dark chocolate.