I met a stranger:  19, shagged hair, draped with silver jewelry, pouring over an inked page, scratching hatched shadow-work into a portrait of a splayed body. We walked for a time under my umbrella, listening to the sound of the pattering rain on the plastic and discussing Animal Crossing and riding a bike. In the library, both drawing as we speak in low voices, separated by a wall of pens and pencils and charcoal, we continued. I ask the questions:

Their perfect day? Waking up early, morning fog, pastries, outdoors, comfort, early to bed. Their favorite memories? Always in cars. Driving out to the field, sitting in the trunk with the back door open. I share my own: They are also always in cars, too. Windows down. That one song playing. Their life story? How they will die? Our similarities? Our sun and Venus signs. We deduce, by the end of the conversation, that we are both intuitive. We hate liars. We love to love. We like in-between seasons—fall and spring. Winter is a no-go. They tell me I’m too self critical, and that I am in love with music. I’m the one who should be doing the analyzing but I take it. We drink tea. We urge each other to restore forgotten passions. We discuss our parents. I learn they are a writer who no longer writes. The night crawls on. The library closes. The rain has stopped, and we walk out onto wet pavement. Avoiding puddles. Watching the streetlights reflect yellow on the slick.