The world outside the window was gray with an evening rain under heavy masses of gray clouds occupying the sky, leaving no clearance for a single ray of the setting sun to pass freely onto the dump ground; and Lenalee was in for a dilemma.
An excursion to a supermarket was in dire need of being undertaken; or more precisely it was the current state of the two girls' a tiny little bit neglected household that had produced the need. In itself, it didn't present a problem. The problem was how to approach the outside conditions.
Lenalee squinted her eyes and pressed her nose against the glass in an attempt to assess the true intensity of the rain. If it were slightly lighter than it looked – which was still possible – she could opt for her jacket; she would get wet, but to an extent she considered ignorable, if not enjoyable. Then again, if it were slightly harder than it looked, her jeans would stick to her legs in the way she hated, not to mention she'd arrive at the shop dripping with water.
The curtains of falling droplets seemed to get thicker every minute she spent watching them. That left her with one possibility – an umbrella.
Lenalee's umbrella had broken the previous week. Miranda's umbrella had never really worked in the windy conditions of the town.
"Maybe you can go tomorrow morning after all?" The brown-eyed girl suggested, breaking her friend out of her contemplation of the weather. "We'll need to buy a proper umbrella," she added, as if reading Lenalee's thoughts.
"I think there should be one somewhere here," the straight-haired girl replied with the uncertain authority of someone who had used to live in that very house and occasionally managed to recall things that should be somewhere around, but sometimes failed to.
Indeed, after a brief search Lenalee was able to produce a huge, black umbrella which had probably belonged to her father; in any case, it looked like a solid protection against not only trivial rain, but a downpour of frogs all the same. Laughing, she pirouetted with the find swung across her shoulder.
"I'd better go now when I can still see the way," she decided, pulling on her jacket and grabbing the purse. "Later."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
A lone pace along the quickly darkening streets marked with lone spots of street lamps, with humming streams of water hanging from the edges of the umbrella in the vain of crystalline tassels, unavoidably led Lenalee into her dreamy mode. The umbrella whose handle she was clutching onto had been, without a mistake, designed as a man's umbrella; didn't it follow naturally to imagine a man chivalrously holding it over her to protect her from getting wet? Wouldn't it be romantic to walk under it together with her special person, closely, side by side to ensure they would both be sheltered, maybe even with her arm under his? Or better yet, to be offered cover from the rain by a gentleman stranger, who would walk her home and humbly ask if they could meet again…
…ideally, that stranger.
Lenalee furled her umbrella upon entering the store. She remembered a novel in which something like this happened. The stranger the heroine met, who also resembled her ideal of man in every detail, began to court her and even proposed, but she realised she didn't love him. Soon after that she understood she was in love with her childhood friend, who had already confessed his feelings for her and had been rejected at that time; still, in the end they got engaged. That other guy ended up marrying someone else and grew fat.
There you go, a thought of self-derision passed the girl's mind. Regardless of all strangers with or without umbrellas, I'm not getting engaged to Lavi.
Unlike many other girls she knew, Lenalee had never devised her ideal of a man. Those other girls had kept picturing their perfect boy with nearly frightening precision, enlisting his hair colour and style, eye colour, skin tone, height, shape of nose, weight, figure, future profession, hobby, favourite music, favourite food, and so on; and then they happily contented themselves with dating fairly normal guys, often having precious little in common with the one of their dreams. Lenalee, on the other hand, had always regarded such detailed visualizations as pointless; she believed once she fell in love, she would see her beloved as the ideal, and no presuppositions as to his appearance or tastes were necessary.
As a result, her sweet muses of romantic love had developed into a rich collection of dreamy words, phrases, places, situations and scenes, but still managed to remain on a level of abstraction at which the role of her significant other was vacant.
That is to say, until recently.
Lenalee frowned. The accidental addressee of her frown happened to be a pack of peach-flavoured tea.
Shouldn't she be worried about how a person who did nothing but snap three utterances in her direction had found his way into her dreams?
Maybe she shouldn't. Maybe she should count the long-haired stranger among other mystery-scented imaginings and leave it be. What harm would it make? It wasn't like she was taking any of this seriously. Life wasn't a novel.
In a novel… Lenalee smiled to herself, standing at the end of a queue. In a novel, first of all, he would've told her about the nameless grave, most likely confining a sad secret from his life; that would immediately create a bond between them. She, of course, would've told about her parents too. They would've talked for a long time, forgetting the world around them, maybe gone for a walk. A promise would've been made to meet again, and that would mark a beginning of something special.
Or otherwise, it occurred to her, they would've talked for a while only – but still would have talked, while what had actually happened could hardly pass as a talk – and later it would turn out they were going to study together, which would grant their relationship the opportunity to grow and blossom even without particular endeavours on their side…
This could still happen.
Only that it wouldn't, the girl reprimanded herself, because life wasn't a novel.
Maybe she should aid her luck. Theoretically, there were ways. Not sounding particularly reliable, but available. She'd heard of people posting ads in local newspapers or calling the radio when you could dedicate songs to find someone. She'd just have to write something along the lines of "The tall handsome boy with long dark hair whom I stared at at the cemetery, I'd like to meet you." She did think of it, on very hypothetical level, but she did.
And her conclusion was that this would seem pretty ridiculous. Firstly, the chances of him actually reading or hearing it would be microscopic. Secondly, it was likely he wouldn't like to meet her anyway. And thirdly, Lenalee, for all it was worth, found it insufficiently romantic. It had to be either chance, or his initiative.
But it wouldn't be, because life wasn't a novel.
Lenalee smiled at the saleslady and then allowed herself a little sigh, first making sure it couldn't be interpreted as directed at anyone in particular. Walking out of the store, she spread the umbrella above her head; she turned left.
And halted mid-step, which caused someone bump into her from behind; but she paid no mind.
It couldn't be him. Things like that didn't happen in real life.
The girl's eyes took in the person standing farther on the pavement.
Black coat with white laces; long black hair shimmering in the light of a streetlamp with fine droplets; fringe glued to the forehead; ponytail, heavy with rainwater, falling on the back; a shopping bag in one gloved hand and a long, thin object in a cover in another; and an expression of deep irritation painted on his face.
It was him.
Her first reaction was disbelief and a feeling of unreality – no wonder, given that she had just practically classified him as a part of her imaginings, in a way depriving him – in her mind – of physical existence.
And still, without a doubt, it was him.
Someone jostled Lenalee's arm and apologized on the run.
Thoughts were racing through her mind; the girl kept trying to catch them, put them into some order and sort out just what she should do.
He didn't see her, his side turned to where she stood and his eyes riveted on a shop-window in front of him. But he could turn one way or another any moment, which induced a delicate feeling of panic in Lenalee.
He could simply walk away. Or he could catch her staring again. Or he could enter the shop, and then when he came out, the result would be the same anyways.
Chances were high he would do whatever he would do quite soon, so she had to decide quickly; being accused of spying on him was not an idea she was fond of. What could she do?
Someone knocked into her. Before the very middle of the exit of a store was not the best place in the world to consider strategies concerning strangers met at cemeteries. But there was little choice as for location at the moment.
On thing she knew she couldn't do: walk past him as if she didn't recognise him.
That option out, she could escape and return home through a different route, or else she could approach him.
Approach him and say what?
Approaching people was never a strong side of Lenalee's, let alone people she didn't know. Yet she wanted to talk to him, which in itself was a bit strange, so…
Suddenly, Lenalee's mind registered an obvious fact and associated it with another obvious fact, presenting her with a plausible and viable solution of her little problem.
Mustering up all her courage and confidence, she proceeded forwards, thus unblocking the path in and out the supermarket, much to the relief of all extrinsic customers.
Here is chapter 4 for you all, because I need inspiration – if that makes sense. Note: any book/anything reference is real unless otherwise stated.
Chapter 5 will feature a short list of annoying things and an only slightly awkward conversation.
