It was dark, just after midnight, and the cool air sent a chill down my spine. The New Orleans streets still bustled with activity. I stood at the corner of Bourbon and Orleans, silently observing. A young woman with fair skin and dark hair laughed and threw her arms around the man beside her, smiling into his shoulder. Two middle aged women stood stumbling and giggling together at a bar a few buildings over. A group of boys - presumably college students, as they were all variously decorated in sweatshirts and letterman jackets representing the University of New Orleans - stood on the other side of the street, pushing each other and laughing loudly. One of the boys, quieter than the rest, stood separated from the group. He looked out of place, smiling lightly at them but refusing to get involved in their antics. He sighed, looking at the ground and running his hands through his hair. He was tall, probably 6’2”, with sun kissed skin and sandy blonde hair. His face, from the few features I could decipher out of my spot of observation in the dark corner across the street, was full and chiseled. He wore a grey UNO crewneck that was a bit oversized for his lean frame, clinging to the base of his hands. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his ripped skinny jeans as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. One of the other boys stepped out toward him, punching him in the arm and laughing.

“Connor, dude,” the guy said. He was shorter, with blonde hair and a UNO letterman reading ΛΧΑ. They were frat boys. Fitting. “Stop looking so sorry for yourself and come enjoy yourself. Not everything is a disposition. Come on, bro.”

Frat jacket boy laughed again and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the boisterous collection of testosterone despite his murmurs of protest. Connor looked the part, for sure; he was the perfect representation of a douchey frat boy. Unluckily for him, though, his evident discomfort with the group gave him an obvious edge that separated him from the rest. It was obvious how he tried to fit in, and anyone casually observing probably wouldn’t have thought anything different of him. There was something about him, though, that caught my eye. He wasn’t like the rest of the man-boys that he surrounded himself with. He simply composed himself differently. I wasn’t sure what it was about him that had me so intrigued, but I couldn’t keep myself from watching him.

I’m not sure how long I watched him. I seemed to lose all track of time as I kept my eyes trained on him. I was suddenly stunned out of my peaceful observation, though, when he looked up and his eyes met mine. I looked straight into his eyes for a moment, shocked, before I looked away from him for the first time since I had spotted him. Flustered, I pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt and started walking. That was my cue to leave.

I had walked a few blocks or so when I finally stopped to look around, and the realization struck me that I had no idea where I was or where I was going - not that I knew to begin with. There was less activity in this area of town, and it was much quieter. I spotted an alley between a café and a small department store and, seeing no better options for myself, decided to stay there for the night. Shuffling into the alley, I grabbed the small backpack that I had been carrying with me and pulled out my blanket, tattered as it was. Curling up on the ground near the back of the dark expanse, where I was sure no one would see me, I pulled the blanket as tightly as I could around my body and closed my eyes, trying with everything in me to sleep. As my body began to relax against the cold ground, I finally drifted off, marking an end to what had been a questionable first day in New Orleans.

I began the next morning with a horrible, gnawing pain in my stomach.

Huffing, I sat up and grabbed for my backpack, scrounging for any cash I could find. I had $4. While I was convinced that such a minute amount of money was going to get me absolutely nowhere, I figured that it was worth a try anyways; standing up and slinging my bag onto one shoulder, I strolled into the nextdoor café.

It was small and cozy, with a vibrant neon sign reading “OPEN” hanging off of the door. There were five or six bistro style tables arranged in a small area to the right of the counter, where the barista stood watching me with her hands on her hips. Soft acoustic music sounded from the ceiling, typical of the quaint little coffee shop persona. The only thing that I could read off of the chalkboard menu that I could afford with my $4 was a packaged piece of biscotti for $3.15. Picking up the biscotti and handing it to the barista, it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since Thursday night - it was Sunday. The thought evoked a powerful rumble from my stomach. The barista chuckled.

“You must be hungry,” she joked, scanning the barcode on the biscotti and punching some numbers into the computer. “It’ll be $4.11 with tax.”

I grimaced; I didn’t have any change. I wracked my brain for any excuse I could possibly muster as to why I couldn’t pay for the cheap little piece of biscotti. I ran through the possibilities of what could happen should I grab it and run.

“I, umm - I can’t…”

As I stammered for something to say, the bell sounded on the door. I glanced behind me for a moment, not wanting to embarrass myself further, and met a pair of blue eyes. As I took in the entirety of the person’s frame, I inhaled sharply. It was Connor, the almost-frat-boy I had observed the previous night. He must have noticed

how stressed I looked, as after looking at me for a moment he spoke.

“Are you okay?” He asked me.

“I - uh, yeah. I’m good.”

I turned back around to the barista, who stared at me expectantly. I handed her the $4 I had and pulled out my backpack, pretending to search for the change I needed even though I knew I had none. I evidently spent too much time searching.

“So what I’m gathering is that you can’t pay for it,” she quipped from behind the counter, raising her left eyebrow.

“Uh, what? No, I… I can… Yeah, no, I don’t have enough.”

She didn’t look amused. She blew a bubble with the gum in her mouth and huffed when it popped.

“Sorry, hun,” she said, sliding me back the $4 I had handed her. “Looks like you can’t get it.”

“But...But it’s just 11 cents.”

“Sorry. It’s a no-can-do.”

I huffed, grabbing the biscotti and placing it back where I had found it. No sooner had I put it there, though, had Connor picked it back up and placed it on the counter without a word. He handed the woman a $5 bill, telling her to keep the change, and handed me the biscotti.

“Here,” he said as I graciously took it from him. “You look like you need it.”

“Thank you so much,” I beamed. “I appreciate it, really.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled, running his hands through his hair. He looked down at the ground, watching his feet as he returned to the counter to make his own order. Just as he had been the night before, he was incredibly intriguing to me. Not willing to embarrass myself yet again in front of him, I turned away so as to avoid him catching my staring. Eyeing the tables in the seating area, I spotted a small table in the corner of the building with one chair facing the wall. I shuffled over to it, eagerly unwrapping the little Italian cookie and nearly eating it whole. Once I had finished it - which, mind you, hadn’t taken very long - I simply sat and enjoyed being in an actual, air-conditioned building after having actually eaten normal food, in an actual, comfortable, cushioned chair. I hadn’t had the time to stop my constant state of travel to sit down and relax. I was thankful. I liked New Orleans. I figured that I may stay there for a while.

I was caught by surprise when Connor pulled another chair up to my table. He threw down a large cinnamon roll and a coffee on the table, pushing it in my direction.

“I bought you those,” he said, sitting down and biting into a muffin. “Like I said, you look like you need it.”

I eyed the items for a moment, turning my head to look at him. “You bought these for me? Really?” I questioned. “Like actually?”

“Yes, really. Like actually.” He laughed lightly. “What, has nobody ever bought you anything before?”

I looked down at the floor.

“Wow, wait, really? Has no one actually ever bought you anything?”

“No!” I looked back up quickly, trying not to make a fool of myself. “No, yeah. People buy me things, like, all the time.”
In all of my attempts thus far to seem like less of a mockery, I had only further embarrassed myself. Everything I said was like repeatedly sticking my foot in my mouth. I was a walking screw-up.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, throwing his hands up in the air. “Whatever you say. Are you gonna eat that cinnamon roll, or are you just gonna keep looking at me?”
I blushed, feeling the heat rush to my face. I ate it quickly. This was the most food I had eaten for probably a good two months.

“Thank you so much,” I muffled through my chewing. “Really, thank you.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” He looked at me for a moment, studying me. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Morgan,” I said as I swallowed.

He grinned at me. “Well, Morgan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Connor.”
I know. I wanted to say. For obvious reasons, though, that thought had to remain exactly what it was; a thought. I couldn’t seem like a stalker.

“Nice to meet you, Connor.”
He laughed. “I think it’s kinda funny, you know, how fate let me run into you today.” He winked.

“Fate?” I smirked, raising my eyebrow.
He nodded, smiling and stretching. His teeth were incredibly straight. He pulled out his phone and glanced up at me. “Well,” he started, “It’s 9:15 and I have to be back at campus for class at 9:45, so I really should be leaving now. Is there any chance that I could have your number, Morgan?”
Although I beamed at the thought, I sighed. “I, uh… I don’t have a phone.”

I was embarrassed. Who doesn’t have a phone? If he didn’t already find me strange from my stalkerish staring, he definitely did now.

Surprisingly enough to me, he laughed. “So no number... hmm...email?” He chuckled again when I shook my head. “No number, no email...Now how exactly am I supposed to keep in touch with you, Miss Morgan?”

His happy, light-hearted persona was infectious. “I’m not sure…” I teased. “Maybe fate will let us meet again.”
He grinned at me, making his way to the exit. “Fate…” He laughed. “Fate, for sure. Well in that case, Morgan, I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your day.” With that statement, he winked at me, walking out the door. I followed him with my eyes, watching until his figure disappeared at the end of the sidewalk. Watching him from afar hadn’t given me nearly an accurate representation of his infectious personality as had spending the morning with him. I wondered how he spent his time with such a horribly obnoxious group of boys. It was no wonder he seemed so out of place with them. Of course, I had absolutely no right to judge any of them. I didn’t know any of them as actual people and had had no actual experiences with them before. I did not know them. To be fair, though, I was typically a pretty good judge of character. After all, I had been right about Connor. It was why I enjoyed sitting back and observing so much. To watch how a human functions within the restrictions of society tells you nearly everything - or at least, the most important things - about their personality.

Although I was enjoying the comfort of the coffee shop, I was not enjoying the impending glare of the barista, and I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I exhaled, standing up and slinging my backpack over my shoulder and walking out the door, the bell dinging behind me. So far, today was off to a good start. I was genuinely enjoying my day; this was probably the most happiness I’d felt in the last year or so, since before my life fell to pieces. I said it before, and I would say it again: I liked New Orleans… I figured I might stay here for a while.