Their writers were at work,
Two people destined to meet,
Their paths so twisted,
That once they met,
They would appear merged.

She was running late today.
Some would say she was always running late.
But it wasn't her fault.
Things seemed to delay her,
Slow her down.
As if trying to save her from an inpending fate.

He was the first in the room
The one who turned up
And sat in the silence
Just breathing in the cool air
Calm as a slowly ticking bomb
Waiting to implode.

Something was in the air,
The room felt warmer,
Windows rattled with the wind,
Or possibly the building tension.
She walked in,
He looked up.
Time stopped .
Time started again.
The writers had done their job.
Now things would enfold
As they were meant to.