It had rained on both days.
He remembered very clearly. It had rained, the day he met her.
Walking home from the library, he had noticed dark clouds looming ominously overhead. Though he had hurried, the storm had caught him halfway back.
To be honest, he didn’t mind rain. He enjoyed the soft tapering of droplets falling onto his skin, and sometimes he even stood in the rain, just looking up with his eyes closed, enjoying the soft caress of the raindrops.
It had been different that day, though. The rain had been more fierce than usual; streams of water, driven by gales, sliced their way across the streets. It had been a cold day the day he’d met her; he remembered he had been wearing a brand-new overcoat. Brown, it had been, and expensive.
Not wanting to ruin a completely new coat, he’d hurried into a nearby Starbucks. Shivering a little from the sweep of the air-conditioner, he’d ordered a hot cup of coffee, and sat down on the row of seats lining the far side of the room. The store had been more crowded than usual; in addition to the normal customers; a number of others had come in to shelter from the rain, like him.
He’d listened to the distant rumble of thunder, sipping on his coffee, mind wandering. Pulling out his bag, he’d searched for a moment, and pulled out the book he’d borrowed from the library, The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. Putting it up to his face, he’d enjoyed the smell of the pages, then gently thumbed through the pages, reading.
He hadn’t paid much attention to the other customers. Looking out of the glass storefront, he’d noted that the rain had intensified, instead of lessening.
He’d looked up when she had slid into the seat across from him. A little surprised, he’d blinked for a second, looking at her.
The first thing that had jumped out at him were her eyes. They had been a soft, creamy brown; warm, but something in them felt solid, like their owner was someone with direction, someone who was knew what they were doing. Those eyes were deep; they struck something in him, before he’d even noticed the rest of her face. They had been beautiful eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she had smiled nervously, “Pretty much every other table’s occupied. You wouldn’t mind terribly if I sat here, would you?”
He’d stared for a short moment, then managed to pull his mind away from those eyes.
“No, no, go ahead... I don’t mind.”
“Thanks,” she had replied, still smiling. It had been a very warm smile; whenever he’d thought of her in the years to come, what he remembered most were her eyes, her smile, and the way her hair lay upon her shoulders, falling in gentle curves.
He’d studied her, sneaking glances at her between sips of coffee. Her hair was loose, soaked from the rain, but there was still a certain elegant grace to it. It fell long and thick, dark hazel, like a mane of chocolate. She’d been wearing a sweater that day; wet, from the rain. A red scarf had been around her neck, a side-bag slung over her shoulder. She was much shorter than he was, but there was no denying she was good-looking.
He’d pulled his mind out of the gutter, and tried to focus on the book. His mind betrayed him, however, and wandered.
“Is that The Book Thief you’re reading?” she’d asked, breaking him out of his stupor.
“Yeah, it is,” he had said, pleasantly surprised. Closing the book, he showed her the cover.
“It’s a really beautiful book. I like the other cover more, though. Have you read it before?”
