Before heading back to my apartment on Sunday after returning from Boston, I trekked up ten blocks to a close friend's house for a quick dinner so I could catch her and her adorable one-and-a-half year-old daughter before it was the little girl's bedtime. Leaving her apartment and beginning the walk back to my place with my suitcase, I noticed that it had started to rain again. Not quite a downpour, yet certainly more than drizzle. A healthy spring shower.
I debated catching a cab for the ten block journey, but decided against it. It's not too long of a walk, and I thought that I could make it without getting too drenched. I was mistaken. About half-way home, the shower picked up and became a heavier rainfall, big drops soaking my suitcase and blurring the lenses of my glasses. My leisurely walk turned into a wet slog, and I began to grumble. Too close for a taxi, I began to resent the wet chill that was seeping into my bones, and the seemingly endless number of grey days of the past few weeks. Not looking forward to coming home to an empty apartment, I groaned inwardly and quickened my pace.
Once in my building's lobby, I stood, dripping water onto the terrazzo floor, waiting for the elevator. As soon as the door started to open, I nearly bowled over the kind, older gentleman who is my neighbor that lives across the hall from me. I looked at him apologetically, and said, "I'm so sorry, Mr. K!"
"That's ok, young sir!" he said.
"Have a good evening, Mr. K," I said.
He looked at me and replied, "You, as well. Keep making beautiful music. I wish you well!"
I smiled as the elevator door closed, and the elevator lifted me home.