Chance

The first time he saw her, she was homeless, sitting in Union Station eating crackers from a paper bag. She was small and slight, like a solid gust of wind could have blown her away. Her black hair was tangled, wild. Dirt and bruises darkened her fair skin, but her warm brown eyes were flecked with pure gold. Tom knew the instant he met that gaze that there was something special about her.

    He followed his class past her without a word. He boarded his train. He spent the day at the museums, and he went home.

    He remembered, though. Maybe she did too, or maybe she didn’t. But Tom would remember for the rest of his life: her gentle eyes and posture like an abused animal. Tom had never seen anyone so good, or so broken.

…

    Tom straightened his tie roughly, meeting his own eye in the mirror. At twenty-two and well on his way to becoming a successful businessman, he felt ridiculous for the nervous butterflies in his stomach. He was in the beautiful city of Rome, his first time in a foreign country, and in a few minutes he would leave the airport and a taxi would take him away to begin his position managing a branch of his father’s business. It was a great position, with so many people to let down.

    In spite of his fears, Tom did brilliantly during his year in Rome. He gained experience and respect. He gained something else, too, something less tangible: a secret confidence, a confident secret.  It may have had something to do with the gazes he snuck at the young artist who worked day after day in her shop two blocks from where he was staying; he knew she could not be the same little girl he had seen, so young, curled up on the floor of the train station when he had been in high school. Reason told him it was not possible. Nevertheless, every morning when he passed her on his way to work he met her beautiful gold-flecked eyes with a brilliant smile.

    He would think sometimes about going into the shop, one day after work maybe, and looking around at her work. Maybe even strike up a conversation. He wondered if she spoke English. He wondered what her voice sounded like.

    He never did. And on his final day in Rome, as he loaded his luggage out of the rental car and boarded his plane back to America, he felt a suffocating knot of regret begin to tighten in his chest. But it was too late.

…

Ally was relieved at the end of the day, collapsing on her newly arranged furniture. The move was done. And the expensive apartment would be worth it; life would be good in New York. She knew it.

Her work started up almost immediately, teaching art classes at a center. Faces changed, young and old blurring together over the course of time. Only one came and stayed, a handsome young man in the front row. He began to come every week. His face was humble, nothing extraordinary, but his smile dazzled her. When he looked at Ally, she felt seen.

His name was Tom, and she came to know it, although she only spoke to him occasionally, softly, on matters of artistic correction. He always listened as though her small comments consumed his world. Ally came to love the sound of his voice.

When he stopped coming, she felt a surprising hurt. She did not hurt very often anymore. She had the sensation that she might have missed out on something big, maybe even something that had been supposed to happen.

…

Tom boarded the flight to Australia the same way he boarded all others. He was thirty now, it had been ten years since his first trip. He was unimpressed.

A young woman sat next to him.

Tom did not look into her face, not at first. Her hair had blond streaks in it, and she smelled of turpentine.

The woman met his eyes. Hers were brown and gold-flecked, warm. Special.  She looked so warm, and he knew her. Tom smiled his brilliant, nervous smile. And it had taken nearly two decades, but finally, he said it.

“Hello.”