Best Thing In Town

Twenty.

The bell rings. My head throbs. I leave.

Although I am still under the shelter of the main entrance to the school, the wind is already twisting harshly around me. I toss the hood of my jacket over my head and wrap my arms around me. I walk quickly to my car, as if I can outrun the warning winds of the storm.

I finally slump into the driver's seat and sigh quietly, closing my eyes. The sky outside is just as dark as the back of my eyelids. I inhale through my nose before opening my eyes again. There's a piece of paper struggling in the grasp of my windshield wiper. Gazing at it through tired eyes, I am fighting a battle in my head of whether I want to get out of my car and retrieve it. I am just looking at it while it beats frantically on the glass of the windshield. The wind continues the battle, trying everything in it's power to uproot the paper slip. But it stays, and beats frantically against the glass.

No more than four seconds spent outside of my car to clutch the paper, and my hair is tangled. I climb hastily back in and throw the paper to the side, preoccupied with combing through the knots in my hair. I am frustrated and it is obvious through the angry muttering under my breath while staring at myself in the tiny rearview mirror. Suddenly, my face falls at a realization.

Someone had taken the time to write this note and leave it for me, and I'm just combing my hair.

I tug my fingers away from the knots and clutch the tiny piece of paper in my hand. Working delicately through the crinkles in it, I am able to read what it says.

It could have said anything. Or it could have said nothing. But all of that falls unimportant because his signature was scribbled at the bottom.

Tossing the paper to the side, I look at myself in the rearview mirror and begin combing out knots.