Predictably Predictable

Of Strange Encounters

November 16
The first time he saw her, it was raining. It was the kind of rain where everything was wholly desolate and there seemed to be a thin veil of permanent dreariness looming over every street corner. The kind of rain that seeps through your shirt and soaks your socks until you're forced to yield to the frigidness it sends up your spine. It wasn't like his day hadn't been particularly unbearable already, but somehow, life managed to slice a irreversible rift on his plans.

To put it simply, it was one of those days when he was eerily convinced that his life held an impressive inferiority even to that of a claustrophobic's in solitary confinement. He'd awoken at an ungodly hour with a migraine to pair and a lengthy voicemail stating that his transportation service was down because of an alleged accident that had taken place a few hours prior to the phone call. A voicemail to which he begrudgingly responded to. He was almost glad he managed to hang up before the agent could engage into a barrage of excuses concerning the cab system's inability to function with the "extreme weather." It was after fighting his overriding musings that he unwillingly succumbed to his drowsiness and went back to sleep. It wasn't much of a surprise, no less, when he arose thirty minutes late for work.

After a torrent of unwanted and angry phone calls, which he was unfortunately on the receiving end of, he clambered out of his condo, praying he'd miraculously be able to keep the remnants of his vanishing dignity for the remainder of the day. Then he realized he forgot his umbrella...

Don't get him wrong, he was painfully aware of how incompetent he looked. Then again, he really was inexperienced when it came to basic communication, but despite his antisocial tendencies, he was knowledgeable enough to understand that walking into a café, completely doused in rain and clad in an expensive suit while muttering obscenities under your breath, was more than just a little out of the ordinary.

Nevertheless, he strode in, intent on fulfilling his mental mission and feigned obliviousness over the incessant squeaking of his shoes, and the large puddles he was leaving in his wake. He proceeded to the restrooms, having vaguely remembered visiting the café before, and tried his best to keep his waning composure. After a solid five minutes of repeatedly cursing his company cab service and loudly reasoning with his overachieving secretary over the phone (the yelling was mainly on his secretary's part), she informed him, in her distinctively shrilly intonation that he could've just called a real cab.

She made him look stupid.

The nerve.

He was almost certain that was a legitimate enough reason to fire her.

If anyone were to tell him that the possibilities of his day crashing into an even more of downward spiral were unlikely, he would've gladly made them watch the "Red Wedding" on repeat just as a slight indication of their untimely fate.

Because his day did, in fact, get even worse. A mere three seconds after vacating the bathroom, a newly hired employee with a queer resemblance to the Morton Salt girl, decided it was acceptable to spill an entire container of freshly brewed coffee on his already drenched suit. She then smiled an annoyingly bright smile and proceeded to stride off as if nothing happened. What he found inexplicable, however, was why he couldn't even find the urge to complain. Instead he just stood there, with a heavy gaze fixated solely on her retreating figure.

He was, needless to say, miffed and not exactly happy when he arrived at his workplace with a "borrowed" and stained t-shirt, that was emanating a stench that could quite possibly kill a small child, and a lasting image of the girl who somehow managed to make his day even worse. He was too preoccupied with his resentment towards her to even feel sorry for the homeless man lugging a stolen shopping cart that he approached after the incident and unwittingly snatched the t-shirt from.