Rain. She was trying to escape the way its icy fingers always laced their way down her
spine and straight into her heart. It had been years, but it still felt too raw to uncover. Rain,
pushing her into the safety residing in the vestibule of the brick building she has fought so hard to
avoid. This is where. She tries to remain stoic, but it is harder to repel forbidding hands than one
might think. She leaps over the puddle guarding the pondering concrete steps that stand watch in
front of the only means of an entrance. For a moment, she pauses and thinks of how ridiculous it
is to put on a foreboding façade when this, in fact, is not a building she really has any desire to
enter in the first place. A moment passes and she finds herself one step closer to the smudged
glass doors that protect her from the ancient memories the brick building hold captive. She pauses
for another moment to wonder if this menial fear is one she should overcome today, but before
she has a chance to change her mind she finds her right foot inching closer, itching to get out of
the brisk mid-February tears. Now there is no way to make the trek over to this building look like
a hand played by fate. She places a single frozen hand upon the metal door handle and pulls open
one door belonging to the regal duo.

Thankful for the instant wave of heat that meets her as she addresses the lobby, she closes
her red umbrella and considers placing it in the umbrella stand nestled by the door, but decides
against it. It’s hard enough to remember her head; she doesn't need another object to remember
upon her exit. Heading over to one of the dilapidated sofas placed against two of the unmitigated
walls of the lobby, she lets her eyes wander. She has always been fascinated by the amount of
people who choose to wait out their days in the lobby of a building, no matter how busy they
appear. No one who is truly occupied will voluntarily take time to sit in a place that is not usually
designated to efficiency. Their eyes are always glassed over and partially closed. His eyes were
always closed, always here.

Reaching her destination, she continues to let her eyes patrol the visages stationed around
the area. Absentmindedly gazing upon a mop of dark curls seated at one of the lonely armchairs,
she began to realize she is devoid of any reason not to occupy herself with one of many of the
books and magazines sprawled across the end table located to the right of her temporary throne.
Afterall, in a room of fake busiers, she was ironically beginning to look out of place. Balancing
the red umbrella on the side of the armrest, she picks up a copy of a magazine with a picture of a
woman wearing a floor length black gown and donning a pair of sinister eyes. She begins to flip
through the pages, but her attention is soon diverted and set to focus upon the fact that the setting
sun is beginning to cast a heartwarming glow upon the previously shadowed lobby. Looking up to
where the curls had been seated earlier, she now finds a vacancy brimming with curiosity. The
curls’ book remains relaxed and precariously stretched out upon the armrest of the armchair, and
she knew they'd soon return. Watching the rain outside begin to recede into its pitiful dark abode,
she decides to remain in the lobby of the brick building, just until she could be sure the rain was
truly tamed for the night. For old time’s sake. Interrupting her thoughts was the slight squeaking
of a pair of rubber soled shoes that sounded as though they’ve walked across the sun. She turns
her head slightly, so as not to knock down her stacked cautiousness, and watches as the owner of
the shoes comes into view. Curls. He makes his way back to his lonely spot and her eyes stroll
right beside him. Curls. Possibly they can feel the gaze boring into their owner, as they seem to

bend over and notify him that his previously noted pools of chocolate have struck an interest in
the boy who is considered nothing. He slowly moves his eyes from their previous perch, where
the clock nestles on the spot where two pumpkin colored walls haphazardly intertwine. He moves
his head slowly, so as not to draw suspicion from the owner of the chocolate pools. Finally, the
viscous chocolate seeps over to meet the eyes of the empty boy, and the world allows a pause for
a curious breath to be expelled. For a pregnant moment they stare, but the pools of chocolate
begin to solidify as six piercing chimes from the church neighboring the brick building echo
through the emptying lobby. Although hardened, the pools never look away. Not even as their
owner stands to puts her magazine on the end table near the worn velvet sofa; near the worn, wine
colored velvet sofa. Her hair winds into a hurricane as she turns towards the door, breaking his
instated curious gaze. As she opens the door and steps once again into the darkness of the
star-lacking night, he can’t help but continue to watch as her fiery strands settle carefully into a
feathery pace, trodding giddily around her porcelain skin.

Turning his eyes to the clock once again, a glimpse of scarlet material residing near the
newly vacant throne steals his attention. He stares for a moment and realizes- the pools of
chocolate have left him a fraction of what he had been waiting for; waiting for nearly twenty four
grueling hours. He has missed his chance of a valentine by mere minutes, but at least he knows
now that if by chance he once again tumbles into the grasp of two sweet puddles, their owner will
be lacking a shield to deflect any compassionate jabs- for he has her umbrella.