said.
“I understand. I hope you find what you're looking for, Gibson. You seem like a nice guy. Maybe I'll see you around at the train station again. Maybe I'll get a chance to draw you again one of these days. Who knows? Maybe I’ll show up at The Square one day and steal some of your customers.”
Gibson smiled and placed a hand on top of hers. “Count on it, and maybe the next time I won't look so gruff. Take care, Josie.”
He waved at her once over his shoulder and walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he could. The moment he left he felt like an idiot. He spent day after day moping around and complaining about being lonely. Today, he met someone who was actually interested in him, and he left her without really giving things a chance. Was he one of those artist types who needed to feel tortured in order to be validated? Was he the kind of person who was never happy unless they were unhappy?
Gibson trudged home, pondering all of those questions, wondering if he was capable of figuring out the answers. Overhead, the skies were a dull gray. No sun. No birds singing. No kids outside playing. Just gloom and lots of it. It seems that Mother Nature was modeling her mood after his own today.
About halfway home, the clouds opened up and rain pattered down on him. For a moment, he imagined himself as little more than smudges of paint on one of his own canvases. He imagined the rain washing him away little by little until there was nothing left of him. It wasn't such a bad thought. Yet, he wasn't the kind to run from his problems. He would meet them head on and wallow in them before he would turn tail and flee.
What did he really want?
He was soaked to the skin when he got back to the apartment. The rain was little more than a summer shower, and by the time he made it back to his building, the sun was back out again. Apparently, Mother Nature was as schizophrenic as he felt, sad one moment, happy the next.
His clothes were wringing wet, and his shoes made squishing sounds with each step that he took. Rivulets of rainwater ran down his scalp, sliding down his cheeks and down the back of his neck. He needed to dry off and was eager to get up to his apartment so that he might change clothes and get warm again.
Yet, Fate had something to say about that. Apparently, she had been collaborating with his muse on what was best for him. Faith was sitting on the steps again. This time she was weeping openly, her head buried in her hands.
Chapter 6
For a moment, Gibson didn't know what to do. Faith cried so hard her entire body shook, and he wondered if someone had died. He considered leaving her alone, then realized that he couldn't just walk away without making sure she was ok.
He rushed over to her, worried. “Are you ok?”
Faith lifted her tear-streaked eyes to meet his concerned gaze. “Oh, great! Why did it have to be you?” she said. “Out of all the people that come in and out of this building, you had to be the one to find me. Can my luck get any worse? I'm such an idiot.”
Gibson wasn't sure how to take that and resisted the urge to be sarcastic. “I'm sorry,” he said, not at all sure what he needed to be apologizing for. Then, he saw why. The bruise darkened over Faith's left cheek like a thunderhead before a storm. She covered it shamefully the moment she knew he had seen it.
“Oh my God! What happened?” Gibson asked. “Who did this to you?”
“Nobody,” Faith said. “I had an accident. I tripped and hit my
“I understand. I hope you find what you're looking for, Gibson. You seem like a nice guy. Maybe I'll see you around at the train station again. Maybe I'll get a chance to draw you again one of these days. Who knows? Maybe I’ll show up at The Square one day and steal some of your customers.”
Gibson smiled and placed a hand on top of hers. “Count on it, and maybe the next time I won't look so gruff. Take care, Josie.”
He waved at her once over his shoulder and walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he could. The moment he left he felt like an idiot. He spent day after day moping around and complaining about being lonely. Today, he met someone who was actually interested in him, and he left her without really giving things a chance. Was he one of those artist types who needed to feel tortured in order to be validated? Was he the kind of person who was never happy unless they were unhappy?
Gibson trudged home, pondering all of those questions, wondering if he was capable of figuring out the answers. Overhead, the skies were a dull gray. No sun. No birds singing. No kids outside playing. Just gloom and lots of it. It seems that Mother Nature was modeling her mood after his own today.
About halfway home, the clouds opened up and rain pattered down on him. For a moment, he imagined himself as little more than smudges of paint on one of his own canvases. He imagined the rain washing him away little by little until there was nothing left of him. It wasn't such a bad thought. Yet, he wasn't the kind to run from his problems. He would meet them head on and wallow in them before he would turn tail and flee.
What did he really want?
He was soaked to the skin when he got back to the apartment. The rain was little more than a summer shower, and by the time he made it back to his building, the sun was back out again. Apparently, Mother Nature was as schizophrenic as he felt, sad one moment, happy the next.
His clothes were wringing wet, and his shoes made squishing sounds with each step that he took. Rivulets of rainwater ran down his scalp, sliding down his cheeks and down the back of his neck. He needed to dry off and was eager to get up to his apartment so that he might change clothes and get warm again.
Yet, Fate had something to say about that. Apparently, she had been collaborating with his muse on what was best for him. Faith was sitting on the steps again. This time she was weeping openly, her head buried in her hands.
Chapter 6
For a moment, Gibson didn't know what to do. Faith cried so hard her entire body shook, and he wondered if someone had died. He considered leaving her alone, then realized that he couldn't just walk away without making sure she was ok.
He rushed over to her, worried. “Are you ok?”
Faith lifted her tear-streaked eyes to meet his concerned gaze. “Oh, great! Why did it have to be you?” she said. “Out of all the people that come in and out of this building, you had to be the one to find me. Can my luck get any worse? I'm such an idiot.”
Gibson wasn't sure how to take that and resisted the urge to be sarcastic. “I'm sorry,” he said, not at all sure what he needed to be apologizing for. Then, he saw why. The bruise darkened over Faith's left cheek like a thunderhead before a storm. She covered it shamefully the moment she knew he had seen it.
“Oh my God! What happened?” Gibson asked. “Who did this to you?”
“Nobody,” Faith said. “I had an accident. I tripped and hit my
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