I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't even recognize him at first. 

"Sir...uh, can I help you?" I attempted as he approached. In my defense, he was wearing a Mackintosh raincoat and one of those old-timey oilskin caps, a look that wouldn't be out of place on the cover of a trade magazine from the 1800s. And...sensible shoes! 

Somehow, my brain took all of these signals and interpreted them to mean that this was a coast guard, coming to tell me that we're in a state of emergency.

I was so alarmed by this thought that I stepped out from under the awning - and was immediately splattered with a heaving load of rainwater. "A-pfuhh!!"

"It's me," he yelled back through the din of the rain.

"What?" I replied intelligently. I'd hoped to look authoritative, like a person who deserves to be saved from a climate calamity, but couldn't stop pawing at my eyes with both hands like a bewildered otter. The dusty facade of the café hadn't been wiped down since it opened for the season, and the rainwater still carried more than a lick of grit. Amelia had this ingenious notion that the more distressed an establishment looked from the outside, the better it ought to be. 

Because the person did not answer me, I added, after a moment of unbelievable pain, "ah - is it Jo then?"

A dry, clean cloth was unceremoniously shoved at my face, and by and by, a strong hand moved it about. I stilled. The rain no longer fell on me - it retreated into the unknowable distance, like in a movie. 

I couldn't get over it. Your standard issue assist in this situation would have simply involved driving the handkerchief back and forth - a boy playing with his bulldozer, one might say - but his hand was so polite and so sensible, pecking at the shards of sand and dust and leaving aside unaccosted skin. It overwhelmed me.

Naturally, I was thrilled. When executed masterfully, I could almost think of it as the kind gesture that it was always intended to be, something to be enjoyed. 

"No...it's Jo now," he replied, his voice nearly in my ear. I startled - suddenly and inexplicably he was looming right over me, his umbrella held over my head, his low voice aimed downwards like a spear. 

I laugh insanely hard at his little repartee, because it was so funny. His joke, this entire situation. Quick, say something!

"Umm soooo, why'd you come out here today? Don't you own a table?" 

Oh God, strike me down!! Or just let him think I was weird, weird enough that he'd leave and let me live another day!

Jo considered me in silence. His eyes were closer than I'd ever seen them, and it made his gaze feel soft, strange. Now that we were standing in the rain-washed air, and neither one of us was exuding coffee, I thought I could smell something faintly, beginning on the collar of his shirt and wafting down the opening of his jacket. A scent that bloomed from his skin. I flinched - I did not need to know what personal care products Jo Lazenby used and, holy reciprocity, he did not need to know what I used either!

As he stared, he seemed to be debating whether to tell me something...