She stood by the window, half obscured by the steam.
She watched him lean against the brick, his shoulders hunched against the bitter wind.
One light shone down and his face was caressed by the beam.
What a beautiful stranger, a succulent muse.
Her gaze turned down to the maze of crumpled papers, all ideas she had binned.
Thousands of ink drops and nothing she could use.
Nothing that told of the battle inside.
Nothing was purging her soul.
She felt his gaze on her then but she didn't feel the need to hide.
She let his eyes linger and she felt he could see all her years and their toll. But under his gaze, for a split second, she felt whole.
Her attention turned to the music that played distantly below.
Her head rolled back and her lids fell heavy.
But her hips moved in time with the beat, and the rhythm began to grow.
It was the first time in a long time she had danced, and her heart lifted its levy.
Her body swayed and her lips parted with the words.
And she felt the draining of the swamp that had settled heavy in her chest.
He watched her dancing in the window and his laughter lifted like birds.
It settled on her ears and brought her mind some rest.
She picked up the pen and began to write, all thanks to the stranger in the night.