I met a girl who admitted she liked clouds—I know to most people that may not seem such a big thing, but to me it was momentous.
I now had a prospective applicant for my local Cloud Appreciation Society, which at the moment consisted of only one member—me.
Did I mention she was beautiful?
We were sitting on my favourite bench in Queen's Park enjoying the sun and of course, watching clouds.
I was still trying to come to terms with what she had said—l mean, face it, most beautiful women do not spend their afternoons staring into space—although I was now spending my lunch break staring at her face.
I studied her closely, suspecting some trick—but she looked like I do most days—legs stretched out, eyes squinting, staring at clouds.
I tried not to notice how shapely her legs were—or how lovely her profile—or the soft blue-black hue of her hair.
My mouth was dry and my lips felt like bark.
I was hopelessly drawn into her world.
“You’re staring,” she whispered. How she knew, I had no idea. She never took her eyes off the clouds.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t even try to deny it. I was staring. She was the only woman I ever met who reminded me of a rainstorm—she was that beautiful.
“You’re a womanizer, aren’t you?”
“No—not now. I used to be.”
Why I confessed to her, I don’t know. I just felt I had to be transparent.
“Do you sit here to get inspiration for your stories?”
“Yes.”
“What do you like best about weather?”
I sighed. I didn’t reveal myself to just anyone. I heard my voice talking. “I like the sky—especially clouds. I need to watch them all the time.”
“What else do you need to watch?”
“Right now, I guess that would be you.”
She turned around and faced me dead on.
“Do you want to take me for coffee?”
“I would like that—very much.” For some reason, I added very much—as if an intensifier were required.
We went to The Coffee Mill in The Lothian Mews and sat inside the cobbled brick square open to the sky.
“Sometimes I come here on rainy days,” she said, “and I sit at an umbrella table in the rain—just sipping my coffee and watching the rain dance on the bricks.”
As she spoke, I felt transported by her soft voice. I saw her in a raincoat, the steam rising from her coffee and she staring at the rain with those huge grey eyes.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking, when you talk, I forget where I am.”
She didn’t smile—or laugh. She accepted it.
“What’s your name?" I asked.
“Autumn Gardner.”
“That’s beautiful. What do you do?”
“I’m an artist. I have a studio—”
“I know it—in the village—you have a framed stained-glass in the window. Did you design that?”
“I did,” she smiled.
“You are multi-talented.”
Her face lit up my day even though the sun had just slipped behind a cloud.
“I like to express myself in different media," She laughed, "but unfortunately, I’m not good with words.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I am good with.”
“That’s not true,” she whispered, “You watch clouds.”
We ended up back at my condo.