Abandoning her luggage at the door, she collapsed onto the couch in a weary heap. A faint symphony of water playing in gutters soothed her closer to dreams. Her flight had been delayed, and sleep on an airplane is never as sound as in the comfort of one’s own home.
“If only I were closer to my bed.”
After a few minutes of internal discussion, she willed herself to stand and opened the curtains.
The sun had dawned, revealing beautiful streaks of blue and pink running down the street in front of her second-floor apartment. She hadn’t the energy to figure where they came from, but the unusual presence of color on shiny, wet pavement brought a smile to her face.
He stood back to survey his work, a lump of pink chalk resting in his hand. Words from a poem she had inspired sprawled on the street from curb to curb, words which seemed too important to read from paper or a computer screen.
Surprises weren’t on her list of favorite things in life, but he felt his strength complimented her romantic blindness. Sentiment was a chasm filled with words; words she didn’t wish to read, but words he needed to say nonetheless.
She would soon be home to read her urban welcome, and he only hoped the weather would hold. He hadn’t seen her in two months and wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.
Rain began to fall.
She never saw his words, and he never saw her smile again.