You shared your bright red umbrella with me as we dashed for shelter, talking about our favorite novels in the pouring rain. I never got your name before the sun came out and you disappeared into the crowd. Still dry, still thinking of you.
We both reached for the last almond croissant and laughed about it being “fate.” You insisted I take it, I offered to split, but destiny intervened with a spilled latte. Meet me again for a croissant rematch?
You played "Here Comes the Sun" on your ukulele, making the whole crowded train smile—including me, the tired commuter in the blue scarf. You hopped off at 33rd Street before I could thank you. If you remember the girl who mouthed the lyrics, let’s sing together sometime.
