In the light early hours of the morning I walked her home. It was the end of just another night out and we wandered slowly through the empty streets, looking occasionally (as people will do) through the windows of the houses we passed. Most were still and empty, though some were actually stirring despite the hour.

I can’t remember when or how I noticed her hand holding mine. I wasn’t aware of any sensation or touch until I looked down and saw it, as of the sudden, sharp feeling of pain when you observe a cut.

I held her hand tightly, the pleasure and comfort far outweighing the guilt (of course, I’d already kissed her boyfriend, a man obviously far too beautiful for his own good, hours before), not too far from her home.

It was only as we turned the corner onto her decidedly grey street that the rain came, suddenly and more or less out of nowhere (such an odd description but it feels apt). We reached her front door and, in one movement, she turned and kissed me, almost biting my lip in the suddenness of it all, shivering with anticipation and the cold running down our backs.

She muttered something about getting out of the downpour and into bed and we both laughed at the blunt way she said it as she took me by both hands and pulled me toward the door.

I wish I knew what stopped me, why at that point I decided this was something I shouldn’t do. Perhaps I’d have ignored the thought, were it all to happen again. But I did stop and with a long, long kiss goodnight I turned away and started the long walk home.