Sweater Weather

Artist unknown

            Rain pattered the sopping awning above his head.  He sat, soaked on the balcony, watching little rivers tumble off the edge.  Beyond lay the whole of the city, glowing orange and blue and purple. Across the street, a guy and a girl huddled underneath an umbrella at the bus stop. 

            She phased through the front door.  “I called the locksmith,” she said, jittering.  This kind of weather interfered with her a bit, and being outside the apartment, away from her unit, made it hard to refresh in real time.  

            “Thanks.”

            She sat down next to him.  “I’m sorry.”

Her hand laid on his thigh.  It hovered a few micro-inches above, and even though he was freezing and numb, he could still feel the hairs on his leg raise up in response to the hollow promise of a touch. 

            The girl across the street was laughing, a light sound, like tinkling glass. She leaned into the guy.  He rested his chin on her head.

            He turned back to her.  She was drenched now too, her hair hanging in sad, wet strands—great verisimilitude.  One of a kind, really. 

            “C’mere.” 

            He brought her in close, and she laid her head on his chest.  He closed his eyes for a moment.

 “You’re wearing my sweater,” he said.

            “It’s warm.” 

            A soft smile tinged up the corners of his cheeks, rosy and stiff from the rain.  Across the street, the bus arrived.