You started spinning in the rain to a street musician’s violin, completely carefree. I watched from under my red umbrella, wanting to join but too shy, and now I regret letting the moment pass me by.
We both reached for the last blueberry scone at Birch Coffee on 27th, laughed, and let the other take it. You had a yellow umbrella and left just as the storm picked up—I’ve been wishing for another rainy day ever since.
You sang softly to yourself, headphones on, eyes closed, as the Q train rattled over the Manhattan Bridge. I was the guy in the blue jacket who smiled when our eyes met at Canal Street—should’ve asked your name before you disappeared into the crowd.
