The next time I saw you was during the day. I was glad I wasn’t making habits of needing late night alley rescues. It was raining and I swear whatever toxins we were pumping into the air had made our rainy season deadly. I hadn’t learned to walk properly in heels—after all, my mother had died in a drug overdose when I was three. I slipped at the curb, twisting my damn ankle, and sending my clear, plastic umbrella flying.
My eyeliner ran and my black lipstick smudged as I tried to keep the water out of my eyes and mouth. For once, I was glad I never wore white. It seemed all the grime and filth of the streets loved me in that second. People laughed at the wet mess sitting at the curb.
I’d never been so embarrassed. But the rain ceased its endless, acid assault and I looked up to see you standing over me with my umbrella in hand. Despite being pissed, I couldn’t help but smile awkwardly as you helped me up. You were soaked too, your auburn locks a heavy, wet curtain that fell to your shoulders. You took your jacket off and draped it over me.
“I’m fine, really,” I said.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind the rain.”
And then you jogged off. I hadn’t even gotten your name.