It was my second month of university and I was falling hard
for a boy studying business. But if you ask me, he's one of the few
true artists I've ever met. We were seated in the courtyard on a bench,
smoking cigarettes as the night swept over us. 
Comfortable in our silence, we hadn't noticed the man seated
on the bench across from us. His eye suddenly caught mine
and he raised himself from the bench to engage us in conversation.
He spoke about the legendary boîtes de nuits of Montréal;
it was midnight in the city, what else was there to speak of?
He droned on and on as I played into his empty musings.
The man ranted and raved, clearly never sensing our lack of interest.
Finally he took a breath and paused. He stood up tall
and, proudly exclaimed, "How old do you think I am?"
without a missing a beat I replied, "24". Taken aback, he said
that nobody ever guesses right. I have a knack for these things.
The man looked to the boy on my arm and just before turning to leave,
he said, "You know, every once in a while you meet someone just extraordinary."
The silence cut through us, the boy and I exchanged no words,
but the look locked in our eyes felt like a  novel.
I never saw the man again, and the boy faded out of my life 
in the following weeks. But I'll never forget the first time, 
someone told me, I was extraordinary.