The Boy in the Rain

Cold. Wet. Homeless.

Those three words clung to the figure slumped outside the coffee shop, a canvas of misery in the afternoon rain. He’d been a fixture all day, morphing with the capricious weather. Morning had found him in a short-sleeved tee, shorts, gnawing a bagel. By lunch, a jacket and baseball cap shielded him as he bent over a dog-eared paperback, sun scorching the sidewalk. College student. Early twenties. He flipped pages with an almost frantic speed, head cocked, eyes devouring each line.
Later, wiping down tables, the book was gone. He lay curled, pressed into a nest of soaked blankets, chasing warmth. A cheap plastic raincoat draped over thick brown curls. The narrator, floury fingers still from pastry-making, watched, mesmerized. He sat up, then lay down, eventually fetal, the book a flimsy shield over his face.
A mistake, peeking out while serving a patron. The boy lay unmoving, back to the window.
“Excuse me,” the narrator murmured, grabbing a blanket from the back.
Outside, the rain plastered hair to the narrator’s face, an insistent drumming on the flimsy umbrella. The boy seemed fine, not sick. A gentle nudge with a shoe.
A loud, protesting groan ripped from the blanket nest. “I’m not moving,” he grumbled, burrowing deeper. He yanked the covers tighter, emphasizing his words. His tone, sardonic, deadpan, with a sliver of irony, resonated. Authentic.
“I’m not doing anything wrong except existing, and I’m so sorry for my presence. If you touch me, you’ll regret it.”
The narrator clutched the blanket tighter. “Do you… want to come inside?”
He didn't respond for a moment, then twisted, blinking rapidly through thick brown locks plastered to his forehead. “Shit,” he muttered. “You’re not Karen.”
“Karen?” The narrator’s brow furrowed.
“Karens,” he smirked, a flash of white in the gloom. “Plural. They’ve been shooting me dirty looks all day.” He cocked his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. He shook his hair, like a wet dog, suddenly conscious of his appearance. “Did you… want something, dude?”
Up close, he defied expectations. Sharp jawline, wide brown eyes like rich coffee grounds, freckles dusting his nose. Not the typical image of homelessness. The narrator, new to human societal norms, found himself studying the boy. He was too clean, hair neatly tucked, nails clipped. Clothes crumpled, yes, but unstained. A loose pair of jeans and a jacket. This boy took care of himself, even on the streets. Vanity? Self-respect?
The narrator’s own hair clung to his face, soaked from the vicious downpour. The boy regarded him, amusement coloring his expression, a smirk playing on his lips. When the narrator snapped to, offering the now-soaked blanket, the boy’s face darkened.
So close, the narrator saw it now. Not the ordinary human observed from the window. This face, hidden behind blankets and cheap shades, was a mask. Hollowness in his eyes, cavernous, endless, with prominent shadows. A smile devoid of warmth. Despair.
The narrator had never met a human like him. Usually, faces broadcast wishes, dreams, hopes. This one was blank. A nothing, a nobody; a terrifying, hollow shell. An aura blossomed around him, a thick mist suffocating his thoughts, squeezing the happiness from his brain. This boy seemed to have never known happiness. His soul, a smear. Depression, humans called it. They called it severing the will to live. To the narrator’s kind, it was a death sentence, worse than the plague that wiped them out. This human boy dripped in it. Drowning, choosing not to break the surface.
The narrator stumbled back, breath catching. Contagious. His will to live was severed, withering. This human boy wanted to die! No, he *was* going to die. Eerie confirmation in dull eyes that didn’t quite meet the narrator’s gaze. He planned his death.
“What?” The boy’s lips broke into a grin, momentarily stunning the narrator. He shuffled forward, pulling blankets tighter. The narrator fought the urge to step back. “What’s with the glaring? Do I, like, have something on my face?”
The narrator ignored his laugh. His entire world was intact, loved ones alive. Yet this human demanded a pity party. Pathetic. Fake smile. Faker attitude. Unfair judgments, humans believed. But the narrator could still have an opinion. He was exactly why the narrator’s kind disliked his. Destroy their own planet, cry victim. Destroy his own life, blame the world. The book: *1984*. Typical. The narrator had read it six times, each more grueling. For such a smart species, they still repeated mistakes. Two world wars, yet pure selfishness. The narrator’s kind wasn’t perfect, but self-aware. Humans went in circles. This human, a walking contradiction. His attractiveness, a privilege. A child having a tantrum, crying out to an "unfair" world, threatening his own life as protest. The narrator wished his family had that privilege. They couldn’t choose to die, instead coughing up internal organs, suffocating in their own blood.
Blood rose, shivers skittered. The narrator sat with his mother for three days. She died on the first, cradled to his chest. Mom didn't want to die. She wanted to live. Jun, his sister, died crying, coughing up ravaged lungs, wanting to live. This boy was a coward. His whole kind were cowards.
The narrator almost turned, teeth gritted, stomach crawling. Revulsion filled his mouth. But he’d already chosen Blue. Two weeks earlier, when Blue slumped on the bench, a friendly smile through the window. Backing out meant breaking his last promise to Blue.
“Do you want to come inside?” The narrator asked again. “Coffee is on me.”
The boy’s eyes raked him up and down. He arched a brow, offering another soulless smile, too many teeth. “I’m pretty good here, man.”
The narrator nodded, maintaining his smile. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’m Jules.”
His smile twisted into a grimace. The narrator backed away, sensing the cornered animal. The head-tilt again, but with too much emphasis.
“I’m sorry, did I fall into an alternate universe where I’m supposed to give strangers my name?” he demanded. Mean girl vibes. That’s what Blue called it.
The narrator couldn’t respond. The boy waved a hand, an eye roll, as if the narrator were a stray cat. “Bye.” His icy glare followed, brown eyes not as cozy up close. “Stop stepping on my fuckin’ blanket,” he snapped. A faint accent, British, Americanized.
The narrator refused to give up. Asshole, yes, but vulnerable. His second choice, picked from facial expressions alone. So human. That’s what the narrator wanted.
“Just a coffee,” the narrator said. “You don’t have to talk to me. You can sit there, drink it, and then get the fuck out if you want to. But it’s raining, and you’re soaked, and now I’m soaked, so stop being an ass and come inside before I change my mind.” The narrator lifted his shoe from the blanket, turned, and walked away.
Half an hour later, making drinks for college kids, he appeared like a specter. Soaked through, water dripping from his clothes, peering through the door with wide, startled eyes. He squelched his way toward the counter. Three customers abandoned their drinks, making quick exits. Instead of coffee, the narrator grabbed him, ignoring his, “Woah, hey! Ow!” and led him upstairs to the tiny apartment above the shop, pressing a towel and a change of clothes into his arms. As he opened his mouth to protest, the narrator cut him off with a shake of his head.

“This is my business,” the narrator hissed, tossing him a bathrobe and shampoo. “You’re not standing there dripping all over.”