They pass on the street without a word. Hardly even glancing at each other, for one second the air around them is displaced, and their independent molecules dance andrejoice in meeting, only to be hurried along, again, with the crowd. She doesn’t know that he longs for something or someone to believe in. He doesn’t know that she needs a pillar for support. Neither of them realize, in that split second where the worn leather of his jacket rubs up against the soft cotton of her shirt, that the universe has aligned for them and only for them. A nearly impossible occurrence, made even more improbable by the distance and circumstance, and it comes and goes without a second thought.

She is carrying bags of groceries much too heavy to handle comfortably and, as he passes, he jostles her arm lightly but not quite hard enough for them to fall. She doesn’t even notice the intrusion, being too preoccupied by keeping her parcels steady in her arms. In another universe the bag falls from her arms and spills upon the ground, the milk leaking and tomatoes rolling, bruised and damaged at his feet. He utters an apology; the heat rising in his face as he stoops to help her salvage what would have been her dinner. She assures him time and again that it is alright; that she can handle it, but he is persistent and offers to help carry the rest. Before she can answer, their hands brush, lightly while he hands her a can of green beans and she glances up at him, startled and oddly awakened by the electric jolt that the feel of his skin sends through her. Warily, as they stand, she agrees and, after a brief discussion, it is revealed that they are neighbors—her living on the floor above his.

As they walk, she realizes with a blush (but doesn’t tell him), that she has fallen asleep for the last six months to the sound of his snoring coming up through the thin, almost cardboard floor, it’s rhythm calming her even during her most manic bouts with insomnia. She knows that he listens to Zeppelin and Floyd and enjoys late night comedy on HBO, and that his laugh is warm and hardy, coming from deep in his diaphragm, much like her father’s was before he died. It is a sound that makes her smile as she sits in her modest living room, grading her third grader’s papers, all alone save for a cup of green tea. Often, she finds herself taking a deep breath before opening her cupboard, silently hoping to be out of sugar or flour, if only for an excuse to jog down the stairs and knock on his door. But she never is, and therefore the opportunity has never arisen.

And as they walk, he occasionally steals glances at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering how he can tell her (without seeming too creepy) about how his favorite time of the week is Sunday morning when he makes himself a cup of coffee and listens to the Sunday service she leaves on the radio coming down from his too thin ceiling. It is the same program his grandmother used to listen to when he was younger (and still believed in things like miracles and God) and, while he is much too jaded now to believe the words, the message within them is still enough to send chills down his spine--the memories that they bring are like hot chocolate and a warm blanket on a winter’s day. He lies on his couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of an excuse to march up those stairs, knock on that door and meet the wonderful woman who still has the courage to believe in the unbelievable. But nothing ever comes to mind, and his moments of courage fade too quickly for any action to be taken.

In this perfect universe where anything is possible, the two walk up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, where she cooks him dinner and they spend the night talking about their occupations and lives, hopes and dreams until the sun rises and, in that first morning’s light, they recognize themselves in each other’s eyes.

However, life is not perfect, and this universe is not fair. Instead, they pass on the street without a word. For the next six months, until her lease is up, she falls asleep to his snores. She then moves to the other side of town, though she occasionally pops in the Zeppelin CD she purchased to keep her company while she grades her student’s papers. He, on the other hand, lost in his despair one night after work, is hit by a drunk driver too preoccupied to watch the road.

The day his obituary runs, she uses the paper to shield her hair from the rain.