In the city, rain falls in stripes.
The clouds are indistinguishable in a blue-gray blanket, and the lights of the cars steam as they struggle by. Occasionally, someone runs by with a newspaper over their head or their overcoat pulled up to save their precious haircut. Black umbrellas ruin the landscape, and the muddy splashes from trucks too big for the city leave pant legs stained and unhappy.
Inside the bar, it's warm and dry.
There's no crowd to speak of, so Bobby and I can sit in the window, making up stories of everyone who passes by. Her coat is blue and long, but when she crosses her legs, I can see from her calf up to the dangerous part of her thigh.
I want to bite her leg, which is foolish since we've never kissed. She laughs when I touch her arm and brushes her hair behind an ear after each sip of wine. I imagine she's naked under her dress, and she catches me blushing.
After two glasses of red, I order a Manhattan, and Bobby follows along. The thought of leaving, and therefore dealing with the rain, is horrific and neither one of us considers it for more than a few seconds. Bobby's lips are purple from the wine, and when I think about kissing her, she takes off her jacket. It's not an invitation, I tell myself as she turns to me and crosses her legs the other way.
Bobby has the sexiest knees I've ever seen before. How have I never noticed?
When she tells me she hasn't had sex in eight months, I bury my face in my drink. She doesn't pull away when I brush her leg with the back of my hand. Bobby smiles and leans closer before eating the cherry from her glass without ceremony.
There is no romantic way to ask someone if they'd like to fuck in the bathroom of a bar on 17th street. Even when it's raining out.