The next day, I became impatient waiting for the boy. The lack of customers didn’t help my restlessness, and I wound up sitting on the front steps of the café. There was a new restaurant across the street, quaint and apparently quite popular. I watched a large family enter the restaurant, and smiled as the younger members held the door open for the older ones.  I thought of my globe scattered relatives and my father, who worked until the morning and came home exhausted. 

“What are you looking at?” the boy’s voice floated above my head, and I quickly looked up.  As he settled down beside me, I pointed across the street to the restaurant. For a few minutes, we watched as more and more families entered the restaurant.

“That seems like fun,” I said a bit wistfully. The boy wrinkled his nose.

“You mean eating in a stuffy restaurant?” he asked, a little disbelievingly.

“No,” I said, hugging my knees to my chest, “I meant having a meal with your family.” Though I could tell the boy disagreed with my statement, he held his tongue and looked at me thoughtfully.

“You’d have to have the right kind of family for it to be fun,” he said dryly. “My family’s Christmas dinners weren’t exactly enjoyable.”

“Better than eating stale pizza alone,” I said, thinking back to my last Christmas. My father had been working again, and I had had a refrigerator full of leftovers to deal with. It felt odd to be talking about Christmas dinners when it was still so warm in the summer evenings.

“Those are pretty colours,” the boy said, distracted by the sunset. I looked up to see the vibrant hues streak the sky like fire.

“The sunset is my favorite time of day,” he said, gazing into the horizon.

“Why?” I asked, my eyes drawn to a tree being kissed by the golden rays of the dying sun.

“Sometimes it’s there, but sometimes it hides,” he said, “like after a storm.”

“It only comes out when it’s ready,” I said wryly, “unlike the night, which comes no matter what.” The boy smiled at me, and we both sat there until the darkness set over us like a soft blanket.

“Night isn’t always scary,” I admitted. “Life is scary.” Quietly, the boy chuckled, and he moved closer to me.

“My biggest fear is getting lost,” he said. “I just want to follow my path.” I wondered if he was worried about being as lost as his own mother someday.

“I’m scared of hurting,” I said, a little ashamed. “I don’t care so much about dying; I just don’t want there to be pain.” I leaned against his arm and wondered whether my mother had been in pain when she died. Without another word, the boy carried me back into the café, bridal style.

I couldn’t help but see that the restaurant across the street still had its lights on.