“Love you” I call as I close the door and start to wave frantically. Hands waving back I watch as the car leaves, my friends – the last link to something I can’t quite articulate - disappearing into the night.

The car no longer visible, I turn round. Max looks back at me and holds out his hand.

I’d like to say that there is hesitation as I hold my hand out to meet his. But doubt would be a well worn lie. I knew I would end up here weeks ago. Not quite when we first met, but not too long afterwards. I might not have guessed this night, this street, but I knew it would be this.

My birthright arrogance in this city in which he is a temporary resident, merely a travelling player, makes this story mine. The refracted whispers of Max’s other stories hold no power here.

Of course I think nothing but the quickest flash of this in these seconds of hands entwined expectation as I press myself against him.

Max tastes of cigarettes, red wine and an entire summer of hazy, half-felt possibility.  

A couple of minutes later it suddenly occurs to me -

“It’s raining”

“I know”

I look up at him, the hair that twenty minutes ago was endearingly mistreated is now plastered to his head. I feel a pang of something I can’t quite place, not only has he put up with having his hair stroked and being verbally barraged by my well meaning (but drunken) friends he has stood in the rain whilst I poured one of them into a car.

“Come on”

The rain’s getting heavier now, seeping into our skin as we begin to run. I feel coarsely, harshly alive.

Tomorrow it will be wet clothes, jagged voices, polluted heads.

Tonight I grant myself permission to believe that it is something as simple as a kiss in the rain.