Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. My soaked "Talk Wordy to Me" wintry socks squished in my boots as I dragged myself to my favorite seat.

There was a reason #BOSNOW was a hashtag. Snowmageddon be damned! Bostonian Winterwonderland my ass.

Winter here was like an unsupervised toddler, and I had seen more than my fair share of those on the Red Line. It did whatever the heck it wanted, when it wanted, and left a big mess in its wake.

And to top it all off, I got car-slushed today. 

I had been a picture of calmness, walking down the street when a passing vehicle plowed the stagnant water along the curb, tossing it all over me! My rainbow umbrella had gone up instinctively like Captain America's shield but to no avail. I got soaked head-to-toe. The dumb-ass driver could have avoided the deep puddle, I was sure of it.

As I plopped down on my usual Red Line seat, I took stock of my state of wetness:

- Moist, heavy coat—check.

- Doused Gryffindor scarf—check.

- Water-soaked Gryffindor mittens—check.

- Soggy lioness hairdo—check.

On the bright side, at least my "ALL U CAN EAT" undies were dry.

Lucky for me, I had a spare pair of "Bookmarks Are for Quitters" socks in my heavy coat pockets. I just had to get to the safety and warmth of our shoppe and change. Thirty more minutes, and it would all be fine.

Gotta look on the bright side of it all.

My phone screen flashed all of a sudden.

Speak of the devil...

Overslept. Sry. Runnin' a bit late.

Overslept? My best friend Rena, who would always show up early and whoop my ass for tardiness, had overslept? 

This whole day had gone topsy-turvy.

Oh, fine. Fortunately, I had my own key to open the shoppe. I groped for it in the key pocket of my coat.

It wasn't there.

Wrong jacket!

Well, there went my dream of dry socks! And...

I guess, once off the train, I would have to wait out front in the cold some more.

My fingers stampeded over the screen furiously, producing a click-click-clickety-clack sound.

!!!???!!!

How did you even oversleep?

That would be a first!

Her reply came with a wall of text. Various strings of sentences battled emojis on my screen:

I got drunk the night before, all right? I have the mother of all hangovers.

I also have some news about the shop, and they ain't good.

Oh, and talking about not good: I heard you're NOT getting published after all ?!

You HAVE to tell me everything as soon as I get there.

I typed out a single line.

Don't wanna talk about it.

A final message flashed on my screen.

Fine. I have one wrd for u, gurl.

🎢

I didn't bother replying to that. I knew damn well what Rena meant with the emoji.

A rollercoaster.

Up... Then down... Then up again.

It was a visual representation of our relationship, at least how Rena saw it and what she repeatedly liked to remind me of.

But she didn't know Jayden like I did. He was stuck between a hammer and a hard place, with his dad refusing to release the control of the company and always micro-controlling everything.

Everyone would find that hard to deal with.

One fine day, Jay-Jay's ship would come in. I just knew it. He just had to patient and work hard towards it. And I was going to be there and support him every step of the way. 

His father had recently told him the publication of my graphic novel illustrations through his connections was on hold. I believed he had used the exact words like "be patient," "it might take some time," and "there are some issues."

Yes, it was a huge disappointment, but still, I did not want to dwell on the matter.

I shuddered in my wet garments.

I couldn't wait for this workday to be over and to see my bf tonight. Just slump on the sofa, chug white wine straight from the bottle, and get wrapped into one of those Jayden hugs that always turned into steamy feel-good sex.

An athletic-looking man approached the empty seat opposite mine. He appeared more than ready to hog it. His face implied a lean body beneath his wintry garb, and he had that salt'n'pepper look to his hair.

Moments after he accommodated himself, he flinched, pulling up his collar to cover his mouth and nose.

Then Mr. Salt'n'Pepper got up again, recoiled, and meticulously cleaned the seat with his hankie.

Oh. My. Gosh.

My wet, soggy self was the one fabricating the stench.

I whistled a "Smelly Cat" tune under my breath.

I tugged at my clothing as the heat rose to my cheeks to avoid the pained expressions of my fellow riders.

I began sketching one of the pixies for my new illustration project titled "Fairy...?"

Starting up a new project in the new year supposedly brought good luck, so who was I to renounce such a superstition? Sure, it now had a vague name of a traditional, green dishwashing liquid. But hey, in my defense, it was merely in its drafting state.

I moved my pen listlessly over the tablet, trying to distract myself from my own wet-cat stench.

I sighed with relief when I heard the "Next station: Charles, MGH" announcement. Just three more--Kendall, Central, and then Harvard, where I was getting off.

The train slowed to a halt. I looked away from the disgusted faces around me and through the window, pretending there was something incredibly interesting to see outside.

And indeed, there was!

Mr. Ruffles! The train man.

A moment of doubt dissipated as soon as my eyes landed on his uncombed, dark-brown locks.

I'm pretty sure I'd recognize that hair porn anywhere.

He still hadn't noticed me, so I could observe him at leisure, at least for a little while.

Before our trains and our lives went their separate ways.

The dark circles under his eyes seemed bigger since I'd last seen him.

And if he wasn't careful, Mr. Ruffles aka Hot Stubble might turn into Mr. Full-Hipsterish-Beard-Mode-On.

His coffee-stained sweater was rumpled, and he was running a jerky hand through his hair.

Had he lost weight?

He propped his head up with a fist next as if struggling to stay awake. Then, he pinched the skin around his Adam's apple.

His gaze was fully focused on something on the screen of his tablet.

He tapped his finger against his full lips three times and shook his head.

From the looks of it, neither of us was starting our day on the right foot.

Resting his hands at the edge of his tablet, he typed away furiously, his pianist fingers dancing over its surface.

I wondered how it would feel to touch these hands.

Without thinking, I exited the current illustration project on my tablet. I fired up a new one called "Mr. Ruffles." I hastily sketched a contour of his fingers before the train could take him away.

He looked up as if sensing I was watching him.

Seeing me, he frowned.

I smiled back at him.

His eyes grew wide as he took me in. Without a doubt, I must have been quite a sight in my Morning Glory Edition—a pitiful, soaked woman. That Crazy Color Candy Floss pink hair dye was now running down my face in rivulets.

His mouth opened.

I half-expected him to make some kind of unheard remark under his breath.

Then he swallowed, probably holding off from bursting out in laughter, confining it to a polite snort instead.

He hoisted an object. I squinted and leaned forward to make out what it was that he was showing me.

Wait a second...

Was that an... umbrella?

Hahaha! That was wicked cool!

But the car-slushing damage had been done. His yellow-and-black umbrella couldn't reverse it.

The sweet gesture made me grin, nonetheless.

He could never offer me any spoken words of comfort, or a touch of sympathy.

But somehow, the solace of his umbrella and the kindness of his smile did more for me than any spoken word or a touch ever could.