(Day Four)
When Emma leaves work, it is with a secret smile and an extra skip in her step. Not because her morning presentation went off without a hitch, or because there was no line in front of her favorite food cart that afternoon, or because she had managed to sneak out early without notice. Emma's change in demeanor owes to the big poster that resides in her regularly frequented the train station.
Having spied it from across the platform during her earlier commute, she is eager get a closer look at the apparent extension to her masterpiece. Upon finally standing before it, she is taken aback by what she sees: a cartoon man—no, a pirate—sitting next to the woman on the bench, his long and stiffly collared coat stretched out to shield the model from Emma's speeding car onslaught. The gesture is sweet and such a contrast to the negativity she's been spewing for the past few days, but the thing that really gets her (the thing that makes her heart squeeze in her chest and makes her gasp) is the man's expression.
The pirate is a smug creation, all lop-sided grin and cheeky bravado (the person who drew this is skillful, she can admit) as he leans towards the woman sitting beside him. Still, there is a softness to him and a sincerity that Emma hardly thought possible to convey through a series of lines. He holds up his hook—the thing that confirms his identity as the famed swashbuckler—and it's curve resembles one half of a heart.
It's a tentative question, she realizes, and Emma, despite not knowing the man (she presumes) behind the drawings, feels wanted. It's strange, she knows, and perhaps more a testament to the profound desolation she feels than an indication of genuine affection, but Emma feels as though she's found a kindred spirit; someone who is undeterred by her dark humor and juvenile tendencies. Someone she can have fun with.
Her next course of action is easy. Emma completes the heart shape with her marker, the line thick and unapologetic. When she looks at the poster now, she no longer sees a vacant figure staring back at her, unrelateable and unrealistic. Emma sees herself, resilient in spite of rain clouds and crashing puddles. She gets it now.
Shine.
Exiting the station, Emma lands in the middle of a torrential downpour. Her apartment is only five blocks away but she knows she'll be drenched to the bone the moment she steps onto the curb. She lifts her arm and tries calling for a cab, her other hand clutching her purse over her head in a vain attempt to keep some parts of her dry.
And then, she no longer feels the fat drops of water cascading down. Emma tilts her head back, suddenly protected by a halo of red. A man standing behind her has pulled out his umbrella and is sharing it with her. "Apologies, lass," he says, evidently unsure of how his actions will be interrupted. Emma's face doesn't help his unease, her mouth agape and eyes opened wide. "I thought you might—"
"Thank you," she blurts out as a shy giggle escapes her.
A taxi hails in front of them but Emma waves it off. The man—dark-haired and blue-eyed and somehow familiar—beams down at her, approving of her decision to forgo the ride. "Where to?"
"Home," she replies as they start walking together down the street.
.
.