I was 22. Straight out of university with a bachelor's degree in fashion. The magazine I interned for had decided to hire their youngest recruit to be the new apprentice fashion editor. Life was good, I had my own apartment, I was making good money, but something seemed to be missing.
I was walking down fisherman's wharf when I spotted a homeless guy, holding up a old dirtied wooden sign claiming he was 22 and hungry in black marker ink. He was tall, slightly slender but had gorgeous ginger hair, with a bit of scruff on his face, and piercing blue eyes that could cut deep into your soul. He had an amazingly sharp jawline, which made him even more striking.
I stopped for a while, he seemed to resemble my ex boyfriend whom I haven't seen or talked to in two years. All my relationships after him seemed to fail. I could never quite get over him I suppose.
It must've been my raging hormones that made me think that I should ask him if he needed a place to stay.
"Excuse me," I asked boldly. "Do you need a place to stay? I live a couple blocks from here and I'd be happy to let you stay there till you get back on your feet." Stupid. Why did you just ask a homeless guy to stay with you? What if he's going to rob you, or even worse, murder you in your sleep?
I hushed those thoughts, standing firm on my decision. I mean, he looks pretty innocent I guess. What could go wrong?
"Yeah, sure..." He replied in a hushed tone, slightly shy.
He took his rugged old backpack and dumped the sign he was holding in the bin beside him. I gingerly took his hand, which was surprisingly warm, and lead him to my apartment.
Of course, many gave glances, wondering what a girl like me was doing with a filthy homeless guy.
