And After The Rain

And after the rain we'd take a walk. Smell the air, look at the stars. She had her hand in my pocket and my arm around her neck and we waddled side by side to stay warm. The streets were wet as they were empty and the lights changed for no one, but us. Step, step, hop. Don't get your socks wet. She rubbed her frozen nose on my neck and joked about the stuff she'd left behind. We laughed and watched our white breath turn black. Step, step, duck. Look out for the drips. Drunken laughter fell out onto the streets. The cowards hid from the elements while their dates, underdressed and desperate, held themselves on the fringes. My baby and I just walked on by, sipping our coffee with warm whiskey at the bottom. Strange how different people are on the surface. Closer to the water now and the rain got impatient, teasing us in rhythm, making us question why we hadn’t turned around yet. We're already wet, might as well make it to the pier. Step, step, stop. Hold on, let's see if it passes. Under the bridge it smelled like urine; we'd rather be wet. "Spare some coffee for a cold night", a beggar begged. I hope she likes whiskey. Step, step, run. The rain chased us, and in the distance we saw the pier. With a do-we-have-to look, we turned back and thought, "Well, we're close enough." The walk home was quicker and our socks got wet, but no matter how hard it was to keep pace with heavy jeans, I wouldn't let her go. Her palm was warm and so was mine and as long as that warmth remained, we'd get by just fine. With our shoes next to the heater and our jackets in the shower, we wrapped up in the blankets and shivered together. In damp underwear we fell in out of sleep, too much coffee, not enough whiskey.