She was always counting.
Counting her steps, walking away from the corner that night, she prays that he will find it. Earplugs drown out the white knatter of the city folk on Friday night. she listens to the saxophone playing street-man. Looking to the red lace of her boots, she counts her steps. 1, clunk, 2, clunk, 3, clunk.
Counting her breaths, she pictures him standing in the doorway and watching the rain run through the streets. A river marked with the pungent air of shit and piss, of blood and drugs. It was in that doorway in her mind that she saw his tall shadow turning over the photo to read her writing.
He had intrigued her from the very beginning. The way he stood under the eve that night, behind a veil of rain. There was something about him. Something that tugged at her from the inside out. He knew the human predicament. It showed in his art. It was dark. And real. Ethereal. It was putrid and vile and unstable. she loved him for it.