I curse myself for not having the forethought to pack an umbrella as I make my mad dash from my hotel to the restaurant next door. A young woman waddles down the sidewalk toward me, one hand supporting the small of her arched back, the other resting on the swollen belly jutting out in front of her. It hits me without warning. My chest seizes. For a moment I can't breathe, my body and soul wracked with unbearable grief.

The pregnant stranger meets me under the awning and I compose myself quickly and recover my manners in time to hold the door open for her. I have to step out from the protection of the awning to allow her room to pass, and I look up to let the rain hit my face, just briefly, just enough to imagine the water washing away the ghosts of my past.

I walk into the casual but slightly pretentious breakfast and lunch spot, the kind where you order vegan muffins or organic eggs from a walk-up counter made of sustainable materials. I order a spinach and mushroom omelet from the peppy woman behind the cash register and take my food to the empty bar spanning the front window. The side window is bustling with diners. It overlooks the Ohio River and offers a clear view of the Cincinnati skyline and riverfront. But I'll take solitude over a view right now. I'm in a shit mood.

I sit in silence, enjoying my breakfast and black coffee alone, when I look up, the sight before me causes me to inhale sharply. Coffee burns my throat and nasal passages as I cough and stare out the window, bewildered.

It's her. The water is hitting the window in front of me with such a force I can't make out any details, but I can feel it. It's her.

A woman with long, dark hair wearing a red coat and yellow rain boots, holding a yellow umbrella in one hand and a to-go cup in the other, steps out of the coffee shop across the street. She holds the umbrella to the side and stares up at the sky, the water running over her face. I would think it an odd thing to do if I hadn't just done the same thing myself. I get it.

She holds her umbrella up over her head again, but doesn't move. She stands in the middle of the sidewalk, seemingly immobilized, people bustling all around her, and stares directly at the restaurant I'm in. Does she see me? Does she recognize me? Does she feel the same magnetic pull I feel?

I remain frozen in shock when she suddenly shakes her head, turns and walks down the sidewalk, away from me. I manage to escape my trance and sprint out the front door. My eyes frantically scan the street until I spy her red coat and yellow umbrella. She crosses a busy intersection. I dash into the street and a car skids to a stop, honking wildly, the elderly driver raising his arms and shouting at me. I give him a small wave and apologetic shrug while I step back on the sidewalk, never taking my eyes off of her. I want to yell out to her, but I don't know her name. Instead, I run farther down the sidewalk, attempting to at least keep her in my sight, getting drenched in the process.

My efforts are futile. She turns a corner and a city bus pulls in front of me, my view now obstructed by a cheesy advertisement for a personal injury attorney. By the time I make it through the crowd of commuters and around the side of the bus, she has disappeared into the crowd.

I take a few steps and collapse on a bench under the covered bus stop, getting a temporary reprieve from the rain. As crazy at it sounds and unlikely as it is, two hundred miles from the place we met, I know it was her. I felt it.

And then I watched her walk around a corner and out of my life. Again.

I glance at my watch and dash back into the rain. I'm already late for the first session. I question my own sanity the entire time I jog back to the little coffee shop I saw her exit. 

I smile as soon as I enter. It's warm and inviting, with exposed bricks and an entire wall of bookcases. The air smells like strong coffee and fresh-baked sugar cookies. I smile wider. No wonder she likes it.

I order a black coffee and take a seat at the bar in front of the large wall of windows facing the street. The entrance to my hotel is straight ahead, the small diner just to the right. Was it her? Did she see me? 

I sit back and rub the back of my neck. I'm losing my damn mind. Running around in the rain like a lunatic with no plan, just on a hunch that I might have seen a pretty girl. And what am I going to do if I find her?

Ask her out. Get her number. Feel something again.

And then what? I laugh at myself. And then nothing because love is a myth and relationships are shams.

The light glints off something in the front window. I reach over and pick up a small silver bracelet, and a jolt of excitement runs through me, like the feeling I get every time I'm with her. There's a single charm hanging from the center, a little silver flame. One side reads "Mad", the other "Magic."

I study the words, until I recognize the the reference to the old Bukowski poem about a man enthralled by a woman just out of his grasp. The irony isn't lost on me.