Dry

It's a never-ending thing. Pouncing on him through the door, cuddling up in the theater, there's people around. A head always on his shoulder. Latticework fingers. Some groove to fit into or another one to make. Question and answer after question and answer. It never stops.

We leave and walk down the sidewalk, it's dark out, it's night. Passing through trailings of perfume and tobacco. Hands in pockets, fingers clenched.

A man in front of us, the smoker, walks on the edge. He's close to the cars, maybe too close. He looks over from time to time, maybe looking for something in those cars. Something nice.

My jacket doesn't protect from rain. Not really. It's showing these drops as they start, these slight few drops. A couple hit me on the cheeks, just right. Clenched.

We peel off, two and one, say good night, go our separate ways. A few more drops now. My coat will show me all of this. And always a head on his shoulder, keeping him dry.