It's such a cliché, really.
Kurt had been in a hurry, as usual, barrelling down the sidewalk, zig-zag'ing around tourists, businessmen, nannies and everyone's grannies, all the while trying to avoid the puddles of dirty melted snow. And of course he hadn't succeed – he had been trying so hard to make it in that overwhelming but potential city, but nothing had seemed to come easily for him. So he shouldn't have been horribly surprised when he had crashed into someone – someone in a far less hurry that Kurt, but too caught up in whatever to watch where he was going with his coffee cup.
And as you probably understand, the coffee had ended up all over Kurt's dryclean-only coat. But the impact when they hit had also been so fierce that Kurt had stumbled backwards, slid on one of the few remaining ice patches, and he had seen his life flash in front of his eyes as he fell backwards, only to land with his ass in one of those awful slush-puddles.
Coffee-coat he could have worked with, but mud-bum not so much.
And that's where his life had turned into a goddamn romcom. Because Mr. I-Have-All-The-Time-In-The-World had hailed a cab for Kurt, and given him his folded up scarf to sit on when the cab driver had tried to make a big deal of Kurt's wet clothes. Mr. Unreasonably-Polite had calmly explained the cab driver how his seats would be as pristine as ever, because this particular scarf was made of wool, hand-knitted by his grandmother, and would soak up anything before it could reach his precious leather seats.
Kurt, too distraught by everything that happened, hadn't had his wits with him to ask for the noble k-NY-ght's name, but had just smiled distractedly while dabbing Kleenex to his coat. The man had once again apologized and sent him off. It hadn't been until the cabbie stopped in front of his apartment building that he had realized the human steamroller had slipped the driver a twenty.
Only in his boxer, because he had needed to get out of his wet clothes and stain-treat the coat ASAP, he had called Isabelle to explain about his delay, and they had figured out a Skype-meeting would be better than for Kurt to brave a second trek to work. Isabelle had spent at least 30 minutes of their meeting ooh'ing and aaw'ing over Mr. Last-Gentleman-On-This-Planet, and had scolded Kurt properly when she had learned he knew nothing about his saviour or how to reach him.
Later that evening, after carefully hand-washing the precious scarf, Kurt had found embroidered initials in one corner – or at least he had assumed they were initials, and not a bachelor's degree. For how much Kurt loved fashion, he could appreciate quality homemade items, and it was a shame that Mr. Coffee-Absorbed couldn't get his scarf back.
Kurt had shared his sympathetic sorrow with Isabelle the next day, which had lead to yet an exaggerated cliché. But she had had a point, and after some cajoling, or blackmailing, Kurt had relented and made an add on Craigslist in the hopes of finding the scarf's owner. Isabelle being the sucker for romance as she was, had even written a piece about it on Vogue's homepage, waxing lyrically over how chivalry obviously wasn't entirely extinct yet.
In the end, after less than 48 hours, the scarf had gotten back to its previous owner.
It's such a movie-moment, and Kurt still blushes when he thinks about it. Even now, years down the road, while Blaine is happily and proudly recounting their story to their adoption agent.
So cheesy.