“It’s pouring, I love when its pouring. It’s like the sky is crying” I said. “Why is it crying? Maybe it just got over a break up with the moon”. I hear the voice coming across the wall of water falling and flooding the ground. I peered over to see a guy standing there. A black trench coat opened, black ripped skinny jeans, black sweater and tall white rain boots. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here.” The lamp post by us was radiating light making all the droplets look like white and yellow raindrops. The stranger spoke again “Yea, I always come here when it’s raining. But why do you like it when the sky cries?” I was baffled that someone wanted to talk to me. “I don’t know I feel like everyone is happy in their lives, but I’m always sad or depressed. So, when the sky cries I feel like something at least understands me.”
The stranger spoke again un-phased by my words. “That’s poetic, just like the coffee shop over there. With its autumn tone radiating through the cold.” “Yea that would be nice.” We walked into the coffee shop. It seemed old and rustic with books lining the walls. People sat on couches and drank coffee out of multiple different mugs. As we approached the counter a sign read “PICK A MUG”. The stranger picked one out. “This one is my favorite.” It was a jug shaped mug with that famous Japanese. painting of the wave on it. I seemed to be made from pottery. I picked out the mug that was simplistic with a thick black and grey line on it. “Mysterious” The stranger said. “Just like you” I told him. “He merely smiled.” We sat down at some chairs. “So, you just talk to random strangers?” “Not necessarily, you’re the weird one. Talking to yourself and being sad all the time.” I gave him a look, the look you give someone who just insulted your sister, the insult being slightly true. However, it did not come from you therefore it was mean. “My current emotional state shouldn’t concern a stranger. Who don’t even know the name- ““Its Jon.” He seemed to interrupt me with haste wanting to fill the awkward moment. “oh. My names Khozmo.” “That’s and interesting name.” The moment passed by like getting hit by a 16-wheel semi-truck. Then stumbling down a flight of stair at the Lincoln memorial. Painful and awkward. “Yea, my dad named me after someone close to him, a horse.” Those words flying out of my mouth felt as though I just said I was stupid as a rock. “That’s cool, that must have been some horse.” A feeling of relief ran over my body like waves crashing against the beach.