Rain

Soaked he came in from the rain in search of a warm cup of coffee. His soggy shoes left wet puddles trailing behind him like lakes on a topographical globe.

"How's the coffee?" I ask.

"Warm," he says into the cup. Our eyes never meet. He tugs the rim of his Yankees cap down pushing the tops of his ears out and steps back into the rain. Hugging the side of the building he melts into the gray evening.

Intrigued I pull on my yellow slicker and follow him into what looks like a waterfall. My distance is a safe one, not wanting to be noticed I keep him a distant blur. We walk for miles it seems, passing flashing "OPEN" signs that turn dark doors into neon dance parties. The static of the rain is interrupted by the occasional car sending surfable waves onto the sidewalk. He makes a right at the intersection of Pinegrove and Maple and disappears down an alley halfway down the block.

I cross the street and pause under a green and white striped awning. My view of the alley is obscured by a VW bus slowly decaying, fingers of rust creeping up from the wheel wells. Standing there protected from the downpour I debate stepping into the thin black abyss that is that alley.

I hear the creek of a door behind me. Blackness becomes my world as my head is enshrouded with a bag smelling of oil and rain. My heels thud against the threshold and the last thing I hear is the static of the rain stop as the door closes.