"I don't think you fit the profile we're looking for. We'll contact you if we have any openings that fit your profile. The opportunity once again slipped through my fingers, like every other interview before. I thank them for the opportunity, even if I know I'll never hear from them again. What else is left?
I pull out my wallet as I make my way out of the building, grazing the worn-out leather, silently praying to find a stray bill, but I have to be honest with myself, so I put one foot in front of the other, bracing myself for the long way home. How many days before I get another call from my landlord?
A sharp pang at my temples momentarily stops me. Dehydration, hunger, or stress—take your pick. The city surrounds me as my thoughts whirl like a tornado inside my head full of doubt and disappointment.
Just as I'm resigning myself, a wet droplet hits my forehead, bringing me back to reality. No, please, anything but rain. I don't care if I get wet, as long as my backpack doesn't, because then it'll be over, and I refuse to allow that to happen. With a knot in my stomach, I hug my backpack, as if my embrace can shield it.
Scanning the buildings around me reveals no places to hide; all I see are apartment buildings. I quicken my pace, every footstep a desperate attempt to outrace the impending storm. The rhythm of my steps accelerates in sync with my pounding heart. I know I'm unlikely to outrun the rain, but desperation fuels me. I can't stop.
Blocks blur into one another, and I lose all sense of direction as the cold water begins to penetrate every layer of clothing I'm wearing. My backpack now betrays me as the water seeps through the thin fabric.
"No, please, no," I mutter to myself, a plea to the universe for mercy. Haven't I gone through enough already? My legs carry me faster, aimlessly, and relentlessly. I need to find a place to wait it out; it's obvious I'm never going to be fast enough.
Yet coherent thoughts evade me as I struggle to escape this residential area. My brain can only focus on the frantic rhythm of my footsteps and the relentless pain coursing through my legs. Exhaustion looms, and I pray my legs won't betray me.
At a crossroads, I make an impulsive turn, my brain too muddled to strategize a way out of there. My legs, straining and aching, drive me onward. The pain sharpens, increasing with each step. I'm on the brink of giving up, but I refuse to, not without a fight.
And then, as though the heavens are unleashing on me, a torrential downpour forces me to pause. Lost and disoriented, I fail to identify where I'm at. Is this the end? Is everything I've worked for reduced to ruin? Tears well up, my heart rate quickens, and my mind races to find a solution.
I'm all out of ideas.
I'm about to accept defeat.
This is it.
It's over.
I'm out of ideas; it now seems inevitable, so I brace myself to accept defeat. But just as I'm about to surrender and abandon all hope, a voice slices through the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.
"Hey!" I squint in confusion, searching for the source of the voice. I take a couple of steps forward. Am I following a random voice that might not even be talking to me?
"HEEEY!"
Getting a clearer sense of where the mysterious voice is coming from, I turn my head toward it and continue walking in that direction.
"DOWN HERE!"
I home in on the direction where a man peeks from a blue door at the bottom of a flight of stairs. "COME ON!" he urges, making eye contact with me. Without hesitation, I descend the stairs and follow him through the door.
Once inside, my legs finally give in. Without a moment's hesitation, I rummage through my backpack. "Please, please, don't let anything be ruined," I mutter frantically.
The sound of the door closing behind me reaches my ears, and I hear footsteps approaching. A pair of black dress shoes enters my field of vision, and I glance up to find the man offering his hand. "I'm Sanji," he says with a warm smile. I grasp his hand as he helps me to my feet, and I realize he's a couple of inches taller than me, forcing me to raise my eyes a little to meet his.
I offer my name, "Zoro." After a moment of silence, I add, "Thanks. You saved me."
"Well, Zoro, feel free to wait out the rain here. Let me clear you a table," Sanji suggests, moving to tidy up a nearby table filled with dirty dishes.
I take the opportunity to survey my surroundings. What lay beyond that mysterious underground door was unexpected. It was a cozy, dimly lit restaurant, with only a few tables against the wall, cluttered with used dishes and glasses. There were no customers, and a simple bar separated the tables from the kitchen. The mouthwatering aroma that enveloped the place left me speechless.
As I pull out a chair to sit, a wave of relief washes over me, but I can't relax just yet. "By the way you were holding your backpack, I'm guessing you have something in there you don't want to get wet," Sanji observes, moving behind the bar.
My instincts urge me to stay alert, even though Sanji seems genuine in his intention to help. I promise myself I'll leave as soon as the rain subsides, positioning my chair to keep an eye on both the exit and Sanji in the kitchen.
I start taking everything out of my backpack. My laptop appears to have survived, but my sketchbook is, as expected, a casualty of the rain. I toss it aside with an exasperated "Goddammit."
Shoulders slumping, I rest my head on the table, feeling the cool wood against my skin. "So... everything fine?" Sanji's voice calls from the kitchen, followed by the sound of a knife being sharpened.
"Sort of," I mumble against the table, turning my head to make sure he can hear me better. "My laptop's fine. In the end, that's all that matters, I guess." A yawn overcomes me, followed by a sleepy "Thanks," and then, "For everything. I mean it. You're the reason this wasn't a bigger loss.
"No problem. I try to help out whenever I can," Sanji replies, focusing on his kitchen duties. I close my eyes, allowing the soothing sound of raindrops on the door to lull me into a sense of calm.
I must have drifted into a light slumber because the next thing I hear is the clink of glass hitting the wooden table near my ear. "Sorry for waking you. I thought you might be thirsty," Sanji says, kneeling beside me. When I raise my head from the table, I feel something slipping from my shoulders. Instinctively, I reach out to keep it in place. It's Sanji's suit jacket; he's used it to shield me from the cold.
"These are pretty good," Sanji remarks, holding my sketchbook with some of my drawings on top. "I didn't mean to look; I'm sorry, but they were sort of all over my floor."
Oh my god, I'm so sorry about that. I didn't mean to drop them," I stammer, getting up on shaky legs and trying to conceal the pain in my voice, but a crack gives it away, as I say. "But yeah, they're all ruined now."
Sanji gestures toward a small door. "Bathroom's through there." He retrieves my sketchbook and starts moving toward the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in ten."
"Um, what?" I sputter in surprise.
"Wash your hands, I mean," I leave his jacket on the back of the chair and start walking to the bathroom. "You were cold," he says as a way of explanation, sounding apologetic. I turn around and smile at him warmly to let him know I greatly appreciate the gesture.
After washing my hands, I use the cold water to splash my face, attempting to shake off the drowsiness. I run a damp hand through my hair to see that it did nothing to lessen how much of a mess I look like right now, with strands of green hair flowing everywhere. When I return, I ask, "Do you need help with anything?"
"Just don't get in my way," Sanji replies. His movements in the kitchen are mesmerizing. He's in his element, handling multiple tasks gracefully, unlike my usual chaotic attempts at cooking.
"I can do that," I offer, leaning on the bar to watch him work. Sanji continues to cook, and I feel lost observing his culinary expertise. "So, is this your restaurant?".
"It is. I've been running it for two years now," he reveals, seemingly thriving with the number of dishes on the tables when I arrived. He had a full house on a Tuesday. By the looks of it, the restaurant is doing just fine.
"Here, take these," he says, handing me silverware and glasses. I do my best to set an empty table, making it look as pretty as I can. My contribution may be small, but I want it to be just right.
"So, do you usually run frantically in the rain without an umbrella?" Sanji asks, trying to make conversation.
"I don't plan on making a habit out of it, no," I reply. "Do you usually invite random men off the street into your restaurant?"
Sanji chuckles, turning to smile at me "Only this one."
The sound of clinking plates fills the air, and Sanji returns with two dishes. "Hope you like salmon, Zoro," he says. The aroma of the freshly cooked meal fills the restaurant, and I can't help but smile.
