In our first short story_untitled, we left off here.

Read below for part 2, or listen to our podcast version instead.

….

He visited the water many times the weeks after. He couldn’t help himself. He felt drawn to be where she was, or she may be. It was as if she was meant to be a part of his life, and he had to know her. He had to be near her.

No he wasn’t Edward, the vampire. He was just drawn.

He spent his mornings wondering if she was having coffee too. Was she staring out at the rain like he was? Was she wearing that jacket walking through the puddles staring out at the water? Did she even know he existed?

Of course not. He was a nobody. A stranger. Just someone, another someone, in a city of someones.

But he did see her again.

She was in an old record shop. He had seen her cross the street nearly missing a bike hitting her as she jaywalked. He was at least a block behind and stood with his coffee looking at the records outside, while she swirled through the records inside.

She looked curious, but determined to find something. It was a mixture of excitement of the find and astonishment of the gems within the buckets of old school records and vintage LPs. She placed her hands across the covers, and scoured the lyrics and songs. At one point she may have had six in her hands, trying not to drop half of them as she found another. He kept peeking through his sunglasses, hoping she’d glance over, and praying she wouldn’t at the same time.

He saw her at the cashier, only one record in her hand. An old school ramones album with “I wanna be sedated” … a classic. She whirled through the doors with a smile on her face, with her find, and nearly bumped into him, as he dropped the album he was holding in his hands. The same album. He scrambled to pick it up, and say sorry. She apologized at the same time, and their eyes met. It was a split second. So quick but so long. She remarked, “nice album”, and kept on her way. Before he could reply or think of a clever response, she was halfway down the block, her hair blowing in the wind, her record in her arms, tucked safely, and her headphones plucked in.

It has only been four words. “I’m sorry…Nice Album.” but he now knew her voice. A bit raspy. With some edge, but with sincerity and kindness underneath. He ached to hear it again.

But before he could even move his feet, she had turned the corner into a sea of other shoppers down the street. He went inside the shop and bought the same album. Went home and tore into the songs. Excited at the thought that she was listening to the same album, perhaps at the same moment, with the rain starting overhead.

….

She couldn’t help but throw the album on the second she got home. She had made it home, with her favorite wine, just before the rain began to downpour outside…again. She poured herself a glass, threw her feet up, and and read the lyrics from the back cover as the songs played, one after the other. For a moment, a flash of the guy she bumped into came across her mind. How random that he had the same album, and she of course, clumsy as she is, bumped it out of his hand. He did have something about him. A broodiness. A look. A feel. Something that made her wonder a second longer…

Or listen here for our podcast version.

Until next time, #radiatedaily

image source: pixabay