Chapter 2 Meeting The Stranger

When Cindy walked out of the boutique, she clutched the white shopping bag containing her purchases. She struggled with the weight, unused to carrying heavy loads.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. She clutched her red purse with her left hand, while the white bag strained her right.

Cindy muttered under her breath, frustrated by the throng of passersby blocking her path to the shopping mall parking lot. It was difficult to walk quickly.

The sun beat down as Cindy subtly bumped into people, navigating the crowded road. The mall was packed due to the weekend.

Her phone rang in her purse, but Cindy couldn't answer it, focused on pushing through the crowd toward the main road.

As Cindy struggled to turn toward the parking lot, which seemed miles away, a handsome young man named Peter Richard noticed her.

Peter had just finished helping an elderly woman carry her purchases to her Jeep.

Peter approached Cindy, seeing her obvious frustration.

"Hello, excuse me, young lady. May I help you with your bag? I make a living helping people with their loads," Peter offered.

Cindy paused, surprised by the tall young man blocking her way. She was taken aback by his handsomeness, her breath catching in her throat. But his disheveled appearance suggested his line of work was truly as he described.

"Really? How much do you charge for carrying bags?" Cindy asked nervously, a blush rising to her cheeks. She was astonished to see such a handsome man doing this kind of work.

The men Cindy had dated paled in comparison to Peter's looks. She waited for his response, but his sweaty body and dirty clothes assaulted her nostrils, causing her to subtly wrinkle her nose at his manly scent.

"Twenty cents, madam," Peter replied.

Peter was eager to help Cindy. Noticing his own perspiration, he wiped his forehead with his palm, lacking a handkerchief. Cindy found this repulsive.

"Gross! Please don't do that, it's irritating. Can't you afford a handkerchief? You want to touch my bag with that smelly hand?" Cindy asked, a look of distaste on her face.

Peter was taken aback by Cindy's harsh words. "No, madam. Let me use my shirt," he stammered.

Peter quickly turned his brown, sweaty shirt inside out to wipe his hand, and Cindy's frown deepened.

She exclaimed, "Phew! That's disgusting. Here's a hundred dollars, use it to buy new clothes. You stink. And please get out of my way. I can manage to carry by shopping bag by myself before you give me a disease."

Cindy threw the hundred-dollar bill to the ground, a sum Peter had never seen or touched, no matter how hard he worked.

Peter quickly bent and picked up the money before the breeze could carry it away or someone could steal it. He stood up and looked around for Cindy, but she was gone.

Clutching the money tightly, Peter murmured, "Wow! She's so pretty. I just hope to see her again." He brushed off her insults.

Peter smiled and decided to call it a day. He went to the nearest bank to deposit the money. The female bank staff, who recognized him, stared as he walked in.

When Peter approached the teller who usually helped him save his meager earnings, she took the money and eyed him suspiciously, as if he had stolen it.

Peter wanted to save half and use half of the hundred dollars to buy food and new clothes, as his sweaty clothes were torn.

"What's the problem, miss? Is the money torn or fake?" Peter asked, still elated that Cindy had given him such a large sum without him even lifting a finger.

"Where did you get this money? Did you steal it?" the teller asked, unable to hide her suspicion, knowing Peter's poverty.

Peter retorted, "No! How can you accuse me of that? I come here every day to deposit my money, and you're accusing me of theft?"

Peter glared at the teller, who quickly looked down, noticing her colleagues and manager watching.

She muttered, "I'm just asking to be sure, Mr. Richard. Here is half the money you requested. The other half has been deposited into your account."

"Are you sure? Or are you lying? Let me see the receipt," Peter asked, aware that the teller had a crush on him but he wasn't interested.

The fair-skinned teller bit her lip before printing the receipt and handing it to Peter. "Here it is," she said.

Peter snatched the receipt and examined it, seeing that the money had indeed been deposited into his bank account. He smiled in satisfaction. "Thank you," he muttered.

Peter then left the bank with the remaining cash and bought new clothes from a vendor selling men's wear along the roadside: a black shorts, a yellow shirt, and black trousers.

Peter then went to a public bathroom to bathe, as he was homeless, and changed into his new clothes. He lived with his friends under a bridge.

"I just pray to meet more pretty young ladies like her again. It's the first time I've offered to help someone, and she gave me money without sexualizing me," Peter mused over Cindy's kindness, even though he didn't know her name, only that she had given him money without him helping her.

Peter sighed, and went to a nearby restaurant to order a meal, realizing night was approaching and he hadn't eaten since morning.

"Peter, is that you?" Peter heard a familiar voice and turned to see his friend Tom, who also lived under the bridge.

As they slept under the bridge at night, Peter moved away from Tom, who tried to touch him after he returned from the restaurant.

"It's me, Tom," Peter said, avoiding Tom's touch. "No hugging."

Tom smiled. "Tell me your secret, Peter. Where did you get the money for those beautiful clothes? Did you finally sleep with a woman and she paid you well? You're a handsome man, every woman wants you. How much per night did she pay you? Let me know if I should quit carrying loads and join you in this handsome sugar-boy business."

Peter stared at Tom with narrowed eyes and walked away to sit on a bench in an empty shop.

Tom gulped and stood in front of Peter. "What's wrong with what I asked, Peter? I was just guessing if you slept with a woman for money."

"I know, Tom. But I didn't sleep with any woman to get paid," Peter replied, looking at Tom.