Fuck it, I need a shower anyway.

ETHAN

Living in the largest city in Kansas was similar to living in the suburbs of a city in a normal state. Kansas was where I was born, and where I had spent my entire life, but not where I intended to stay forever. Living in one of the lofts in a downtown high-rise had become far more of an attractive manner of living than I had ever expected, and I enjoyed it more and more as each day passed.

No yard work, no maintenance, and no real estate taxes meant minimal worries. It allowed me more time to do what I felt was important; riding my motorcycle, planning my future, and forgetting about my impossible to satisfy high maintenance ex-wife.

I couldn’t decide if seeing her from time-to-time on the back of my buddy’s bike made matters better or worse. He was a middle aged dirt-bag, and was more than likely one of the intended audience for all of the erectile dysfunction commercials which littered the television. Seeing them together provided confirmation she was gone, and gone for good; but did little to comfort me that she left for the reasons she had indicated.

“You can’t provide me with what I want,” she had explained.

“What is it you want, Chloe?” I asked.

“A future,” she snapped back.

The fucking bitch knew everything about me when she met me. I was the same man when we divorced that she had married just four years before; the same man with the exact same problems.

Our divorce obliterated my belief that love and loyalty was enough to keep a couple together. Chloe’s happiness could be measured in the countless hours she spent shopping, and not much of anything else. The deterioration of our relationship left me with little doubt that gorgeous women were nothing more than avid shoe collectors with a love for buying clothes they couldn’t afford on one salary alone, leaving them no other alternative than to find a man with a desire to finance their spending sprees while he admired their beauty from afar.

A fucking future.

She didn’t leave me for a future. She left me to find more money.

I inhaled a shallow breath of the cool humid air. In the twenty minute ride home, the temperature had changed from a calm sweltering heat to a cool breeze. No surprise for Kansas in late April. Living in Tornado Alley during tornado season was a crap shoot for a guy on a motorcycle, but I had no other alternative.

Chloe had taken my car during our separation. She later demanded it in the divorce decree, and I chose not to fight with her. I felt if provided everything she requested in the divorce she’d walk away quietly, and everything associated with her, including the memories of our divorce, would vanish. If allowing her to have my car helped her disappear, so be it.

Good fucking riddance.

As I slowed down to turn into the gated entrance of the loft’s underground parking, I noticed a familiar body sleeping on the bench below my seventh floor bedroom window. Of all days to be sleeping on the bench, today wasn’t a very good one. The forecast called for 90 mile per hour winds, rain, and hail the size of ping pong balls. After a short hesitation, I pulled in the clutch, downshifted, and slowly rode past the bench. I gazed over my left shoulder as I waited for traffic to pass.

Dressed in Khaki cargo style pants, a green canvas jacket, and a black beanie, she was wearing the same clothes I’d seen her wear for roughly a month.

Yep. Same girl.

At the first break in traffic, I sped through the intersection and rode to the parking garage a block north of the loft. After maneuvering into an open stall, I switched off the ignition and pulled my cell phone from the sleeve of my riding jacket.

Although the homeless citizens of the city did not live in the downtown area, they frequently spent their days wandering the eight square block area, typically looking for handouts of food and money from the patrons of the local bars and restaurants. Almost like magic, they all disappeared into the bowels of the city during the evening hours.

With the exception of one.

I recalled the first day I had seen her walking down the block, surveying the buildings as she walked past. It was difficult to tell from seven floors above, but I believed when I initially saw her glance upward that she was an extremely attractive girl. Shocked that she was homeless at her age, I decided she couldn’t be, and convinced myself she simply looked the part. On that very first day, as I observed her through the window for no less than twenty minutes, I felt sorrow in the pit of my stomach as I watched her wander the street looking for a place to rest.

For the past month, I had seen her on the bench almost every day when I rode home, and made it a point to look out the window and under the large Bradford Pear tree after I ate dinner. The few opportunities I had to see her up close provided confirmation to my early belief regarding her appearance.

She appeared to be attractive.

And she was very young.

The thought of her lying under the tree and being pummeled by a hailstone large enough to kill her was more than I wanted to try and comprehend. Although I had no experience with homeless people, my instinct told me she would probably be far too prideful to accept my offer even if Cade agreed.

“Hear me out before you start bitching, okay?” I said as soon as he answered.

Cade was my roommate, and resembled a woman trapped in a man’s body in many respects. He was extremely neat, codependent, loved to cook, was constantly cleaning, and looked like he belonged in a dance show on the Disney channel. His hair, clothes, and shoes were always perfect. His job as an engineer for a construction company seemed like an awful mismatch to both his personality and looks, but it suited him quite well. Although he was very close-minded to change of any sort, and if given the opportunity to decide he’d certainly choose the status quo, I felt I at least needed to ask.

“What?” he sighed, “What’s going on? You realize we’re getting a huge storm in a few minutes, right?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling,” I paused and wondered what the girl on the bench would do if she didn’t agree to come in out of the weather.

“Dinner’s almost ready, are you close?” he asked.

“I’m a block away, just shut up for a minute,” I said under my breath.

He sighed loudly. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Remember the girl on the bench downstairs?” I asked.

“With the beanie? Yeah, she was there when I came home, why? She get hit by a car or something?” he chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, “No, asshole, the storm. She’s laying there with her head on her backpack, asleep. It’s getting ready to hail like a motherfucker and I was thinking of inviting her over for dinner. You know getting her out…”

“No,” he interrupted, “she’s not some puppy or something. You’re not bringing her home with you. Jesus, Ethan, she’s some random homeless chick.”

As he spoke, I realized I knew all along what his response was going to be. Maybe not the exact wording of it, but the end result, yes. Before he had a chance to finish speaking, I butted in. After all, the call was more of a courtesy than a necessity.

“I’m going to stop and talk to her. If she’s willing, I’m bringing her in with me,” I said.

“Ethan, I swear, I don’t want her…”

“I’m not asking. If you don’t want to be around her, she can sit in my room until the storm passes. She probably won’t agree to it anyway, but I’ve gotta offer,” I snapped back.

“Fucking great. Whatever. I hope the ratty little bitch likes enchiladas,” he responded.