Short Story Part 1

It was a day filled with strange and unsettling gloom. The gloom dropped to the bottom of stomachs of even the most cheerful people and consumed them from within. The dampness settled on top of their heads and clung onto their hair. For some it even seeped into their minds. It was not a day for love, and certainly not a day for meeting soul mates. It was a day when rain was associated with tears and darkness was associated with death.
Amiah could have been standing in the rain for much longer than she stood and not have been surprised. She could have let her black leather valise, dripping with rain and ruined, sit on the cold pavement for hours and accepted that she was not meant to be happy. Her graceful arm protruded into the sky, rain drops slid down her long pale hand, and she could have waited as a million more cabs passed her by. That is why when one of the shining yellow blurs slowed enough for her to glimpse the tired Indian face behind the wheel she was relieved that she would not be standing there all night. She was nothing but relieved. Amiah picked her valise up and hoisted it into the back seat next to her. She directed the cab driver and sat straight in her seat and stared straight ahead. The cab driver glanced at her in the mirror once, and then again. She was extraordinary; her nose fell carefully between her flushed cheeks and her wordless lips were soft and sweet in appearance but bore a purposely severe expression. The driver tried to catch her glance, but the hazel eyes revealed little more than pools of molten copper might have. The reflection in her gaze caused him to uncomfortably shift his own eyes towards the road.
Red brake lights streamed through a dense evening fog as the cab came to a slow halt outside of a neat city brownstone. Amiah stepped out and lifted her head towards the top of the building; there was a man standing at the highest window, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the street with quiet anticipation. The room was dark behind him and his face was silhouetted with what she knew to be light from the hallway. She lifted a hand in a weak salute and he left the window without returning the gesture. The curtains collapsed together upon his departure. Amiah clutched her valise tighter to stop her fingers from trembling, drew in a cold breath and started up the stairs. Then she stopped, the cab pulled away and slowly she descended again.


“Excuse me,” the man at the next table said. He was leaning towards her, and his face was etched with an expression of discomfort and uncertainty. She guessed he didn’t initiate much casual coffee house flirtation. She took this as a good sign and played along. She noticed a stack of books sitting unopened in front of him; it mostly consisted of new mathematics and computer text books. But beneath the pile she caught sight of an old and creased copy of Robinson Crusoe and beneath that a slightly newer copy of Typee. He was carefully dressed, she noticed, with his shirt tucked into his pants and his pants lined with precise creases. He was embraced by cologne, but so faintly that she could only smell it when she leaned in to hear him over the whirling espresso machines. By the end of the afternoon they had exchanged telephone numbers and made plans to meet for dinner the following night. She left the café with the smell of coffee beans clinging to her clothes and optimism swinging from her heart. His name was Lawrence and hers was Amiah.