The chance of an average person being struck by lightning in any given year is 1 in 960,000. The chance of being struck in a lifetime is 1 in 12,000. The smallest of factors can affect this such as taking a wrong turn, but no one usually believes that it will happen to them. The chance of a direct strike is even more unlikely. In a direct strike, a person is part of the flash channel and enormous amounts of energy pass through their body. It can result in irreversible harm such as a damaged organ, a damaged nervous system or death.

The chance of a direct strike is 1 in 1,070,000. The chance of me walking into your coffee shop, must have been roughly the same. 

*****

I walk into the small coffee shop and breath a sigh of relief, as I gradually begin to warm up. My body tingles all over, and I sneeze, beginning to wonder why I leave my house so early in the morning. After placing my order for a medium, boiling hot mocha, I stand and patiently wait for it at the second counter. That was the first time I saw him. He was so handsome; so remarkably close to perfect. His hair fell down to the bottom of his neck in golden curls and his green eyes sparkled, despite the limited lighting.

His eyes met mine as his hand passed the mocha to mine, slowly. No smile left his lips but I was in danger of allowing one to escape mine. He made me feel insecure. Suddenly I was all too aware of my own flaws. I was aware that my hair was brown, straight and not exactly special. I was all too aware that my eyes didn’t sparkle like his did, that they didn’t show hundreds of beautiful colours the way his did. I was so common, so indistinctive.

I find a cosy place to sit in the corner of the shop, still flustered. As I was nearing the end of my mocha, another mocha was placed down onto my table.

“I didn’t order-” I began, but stopped when I saw who it was.

“On the house,” the golden-haired guy said. “May I join you?” I nod, feverishly.

He introduced himself as Tom and we were quickly established as opposites. I like to read, he doesn’t. He plays sports, I don’t. I like classic rock ‘n’ roll and he likes modern EDM. Still, something drew me to him. Something other than his good looks.

We spoke for almost an hour. Well, I spoke for almost an hour. He was quieter, more reserved. Closed-off. Almost cold. My heart raced for the entire conversation and it didn’t stop when he left. I was almost convinced that I was dreaming. When the time came that he had to go back to work, I was undeniable disappointed. He hadn’t even asked for my number. Which probably wasn’t much of a surprise, seeing as how I couldn’t shut up.

Half an hour later, I got up to leave. I pushed open the entrance and exit door, hoping that he would stop me. He didn’t.

Hours later, sitting at the bus stop after a long day, I mourn my loss, my missed opportunity. There was something about him that spoke to me. Despite our differences. We are kind of like coffee and cream. One bitter, one sweet. But still the perfect combination. I’m carried away with my thoughts, where I’m not so lonely. I still feel lonely as a random stranger takes a seat next to me on the bench.

Looking up at the hooded stranger, I see one golden curl escape.