Introductions (Short Story)

The first time he sees her, resting in the shade of a store awning and dipping a paintbrush into the teacup on the sidewalk beside her, he thinks she's homeless. She certainly looks the part; about twenty-five with the torn, raggedy clothing, her skin darkened by dirt and sun, and the backpack at her dirt-blackened bare feet. Every so often her eyes, hazel and happy, flash away from the notebook on her lap and take in her surroundings. The second time he sees her, he has his own drawing pad and sits down to draw her. There's a flicker of a smile, but other than that she gives no indication that she notices him. She's working with charcoal today, fingertips and hands streaked with the dust. There's a smear of black along one cheekbone, where she'd brushed some sun-streaked auburn hair away from her eyes. He only has time for a rough sketch before she's slung her backpack over her shoulders and heads off down the street.

It's a game of tag after that, and if she's there he'll sit down and draw beside her. He learns that if she's not working in charcoals, she painting with overbrewed tea. She pulls delicate colors from the leaves, pale blue-lavenders, reds that start pale and eventually turn blood-red, and ambers. He spends most of the summer viewing the world she creates in the colors of tea.

Summer is long gone and it's snowing and icy cold, cold enough that his eyes won't stop watering. The shimmery wrapping paper covering the sketchbook doesn't look nearly as festive as it had when he'd left his small apartment. His heart sinks when he reaches the sidewalk, mentally kicking himself for thinking she'd be here in this kinda of weather. He's turning to go back to his depressing apartment when movement in a coffee shop window catches his eye, he sees her rummaging through her bedraggled backpack, earning glares from the staff because it looks like it went three rounds with a compost heap and it's on the table that they will have to clean later, thank you very much. The heat when he opens the door brings him halfway to thaw, and by the time he sits down across from her the feeling is starting to return to his fingers. They've continued their game of drawing tag, moving it indoors. He'd found her in the local library mid-fall when he'd been looking for a book for a research assignment and from then on she hadn't been on the sidewalk. They never talked, didn't know each other's names, they just drew and painted and wondered at the other's view of the world set down to paper.

He slid the dampened sketchbook across the table at the same time she produced a brightly wrapped box festooned with ribbons. The backpack disappeared from the table (the sigh of relief from the waitstaff almost palpable) and he looked up to see her hand extended across the table. When he took it she smiled and said, "My name's Kaylee."

"Good to meet you Kaylee, I'm Simon."