How many times a year do I stop at the library so early in the morning? Two or three, tops? What are the chances I’d happen to be here, returning a handful of unwatched cartoon DVDs on the same morning you are here? Something tells me the complex sequence of events that brought me on this particular rainy morning – the same morning your own desperation caused you to seek asylum under the dry awning of this church of words – something tells me it all came together for a reason.
I can’t see your exact form in that cocoon of blankets, but I know a few things about you. Your footwear tells me you’re a girl, and it also tells me you didn’t plan to sleep here. Flip flops in the Northwest during May? You didn’t have the benefit of planning this little campout. Whoever you are, wherever you came from, you left that place in a hurry. Your flip flops, your wad of clean blankets, your plastic grocery bag of toiletries tell me that. And you’re a bit nervous to be out here, aren’t you. (Yes, I saw your body shutter when you heard me approaching.) I thought about talking to you, asking if you could use a ride someplace, but I have a feeling there’s a man you are trying to stay away from, and the sudden interaction with a very large man like me may not be something you’re prepared to deal with. So what do I do?
You’ll be hungry when you get up, I suppose. I could find you some food. Man, I can almost see in my mind the cars stacking up on that Valley Freeway. My commute is already hell, and I’m not even in it yet. I don’t have time to stop…
Screw it. I’ll find you something to eat. McDonalds? But what if you don’t like greasy food? They do have oatmeal…but some people find the texture disgusting; what if you’re one of those? A muffin! There’s a coffee shop around the corner that does a great job of stocking and reheating Costco muffins. Who doesn’t love a muffin? Blueberry then? Ok, I’ll be back shortly with a lovely blueberry muffin for you, my dear. And don’t worry, I will not disturb you on my return if you’re still lying there, trying to rest through shivers while the concrete sucks warmth from your bones. I will just anonymously set the muffin right here, next to your invisible head. I don’t know if it will do much for you. A muffin’s an awfully small thing in light of the overwhelming ache you must feel. But I hope it lets you know Someone is thinking about you, dear child. I hope it’s at least something.
Who’m I kidding? It’s just a stupid muffin.