Of Strangers and Ash

She danced her way down the sidewalk, face turned towards the sky as raindrops pattered the spaces between her freckles. Autumn had always been her favourite season: leaves turned from cool green to match the flame of her hair, and the wind, tinged here and there with the scent of burning maple, held a crispness as it flowed around her. It was late, past midnight at the very least, but when she met up with her friends at the little cafe down the street, conversation often flowed into the wee hours of morning. Curled up on the mismatched couches, the group of them had chittered like sparrows over pastries and bottomless cups of tea until the wait staff had cheerfully shooed them out the door. Now, walking home alone, she smiled to herself as she remembered snippets of the evening's exchanges, aglow with the energy drawn from those she adored. This late at night, there was rarely anyone around to jostle her from her reveries: just the stars keeping her company on her journey.

Halfway down the block ahead, she saw a shape near one of the street lamps and slowed her pace to take a better look before she approached. Normally she'd be wary of an unfamiliar form looming in a shadow, but strangely enough she felt no fear, here. She was unsure as to why, but she just seemed to know that there was no threat looming ahead in the half-light. The street was deserted except for her and this other being, but despite the countless ugly scenarios that would ordinarily flash through her mind in situations like these, she felt comfortable. Safe, even.

As she edged forward, the shape turned out to be a man standing perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk. He seemed to be in his early forties, and was clad in a heavy coat that seemed to hang off his frame; he was so thin that his cheekbones strained against the skin of his face as though trying to break free of it. His mouth might have been almost a bit too wide, and there were lines around his eyes that caught the falling rain in tiny rivulets, but there was also a strange beauty to his features. She moved a bit closer to get a better look at him, and he turned towards her, suddenly aware of her presence.

 He was tall enough that she had to angle her head upwards to meet his eyes, and was startled at the intense grey gaze that met her own. They stared at each other in silence for a few minutes, and then he slowly held out a hand towards her. She reached out in turn, and there they stood, two strangers holding hands in the chill of an October night.

"We were all rain together, once," he said softly as he turned his eyes skyward. "All of us, storms and mist."

She squeezed his hand and peered at him a bit more closely. As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned back to her and they stared into each other once again. He wondered what it was she could read in his eyes—if she could see the countless nights he spent awake, desperately trying to channel the never-ending wordstream onto paper, knowing full well that there wouldn't be enough hours in his lifetime to get it all out. If she could imagine the empty bottles strewn around his office, the threadbare socks he couldn't be bothered to replace, the solitude he both cherished and despised. He often went for days without verbal contact with another human being, usually startled into awkwardness by those seeking conversation when he ventured into a public place to write. The words he'd just spoken to this young girl were the first he'd uttered aloud in over a week.

She saw none of those details, but merely sensed the pain this stranger carried. He was old enough to be her father, but such details never mattered. All she could think about was leading him by the hand she held (that cool, pale, thin hand with its graceful fingers — she imagined that he'd play the piano beautifully, if he tried) and taking him home with her. Home to the warmth of her tiny apartment, with the faerie lights strung over window frames and patchwork quilts on the furniture. Her haven of rainbow hues might melt through the misery he bore; her own softness could very well enfold him in gentleness and light. She wanted to smooth his hair and kiss the sorrow from those wide grey eyes until they shone silver. Her entire being was pressing this instinct, her heart pounding in her chest as she bit her lip, but she said nothing... just stood there, wishing for the courage to act on impulse, willing her mouth to open to invite him home with her.

The words just wouldn't come. The two strangers stood there for a few minutes longer before she pressed his hand one last time and turned away. There was now a noticeable pang twisting within her; a small one, like one of those poignant memory-pains that rears up every so often to remind us of things we'd prefer to forget. She would think about this night for years afterward, looking around every time she passed that street lamp to see if by some miracle she'd catch a glimpse of her grey man. At this moment, though, she plodded on towards home with that small empty space within her gnawing with "might have beens" and "what if?"s.

The man stood there for some time longer, gazing down at the hand the girl had held. A tingling warmth remained in it long after she had disappeared into the night, bringing to mind memories of days when autumn was sun-kissed and smiling. That warmth never reached his face, never washed the sorrow from his eyes, but somewhere within him there was, ever so briefly, a slight lifting of the ashen ache.