of them fluttered their fingers in our direction. I nodded politely, and Nate must have smiled at them or something, because it set them off giggling.
Once we were ensconced inside and seated at the bar, Nate said, "Oh my god, did you see the one in red?" He glanced furtively toward the entrance. "I used to date a guy who looked exactly like her."
I swiveled on my barstool a quarter-turn and leaned away from the bar, trying to get a better look.
Nate clouted me on the shoulder. "Don't stare," he laughed.
"What, you think it's him?" I said, squinting toward the ladyboy sparkling in crimson sequins while Nate ordered our beers. "Quite the looker."
"Yeah, well, I've always had excellent taste in men," he said.
He smiled serenely at me as he said it. I wasn't sure what to do with it, inordinately relieved when our beers appeared, scattering the rabble of butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach. The ones that staunchly clung to my insides I'd drown with alcohol.
We made it through two large bottles each, spending most of our time people-watching, making up stories about their lives, once quietly cheering to ourselves when the ladyboy in red scored a shy, curious customer.
When almost everyone in the bar was given their backstories, and in some cases, macabre futures involving hair loss and dental crises, we decided to call it a night. I was pleasantly warm by this time, the fizz of the beer making it all the way to my fingertips.
The air outside was humid, intangible until it formed a film of moisture on my skin, and it was a welcome change when cool raindrops began to patter all around us.
Gradually, more of them came to join their fallen brethren, and we picked up our pace, though not quickly enough. Without warning, somebody upstairs flipped a switch, and the rainfall turned into a torrent, drenching everyone in its way within seconds.
"What the hell?" Nate laughed, looking up at the sky.
"Mandatory wet T-shirt contest," I called out, though nobody paid me any attention, thank goodness.
Laughing like children but too old to jump in puddles, we ran to the shelter of a row of closed shophouses near our hotel to wait out the rain. Other people scurried by, slapping splashes of water into the air as they passed, opting to run to wherever they were going rather than taking refuge as we did. Maybe they knew something we didn't, maybe the downpour would last for hours.
We waited quietly for a few minutes, squeezing what water we could from our clothing, watching sheets of rain soak the earth. The streets gleamed, a pretty canvas of reflected street lamps and traffic lights.
I leaned against a narrow wall and Nate came with me, the side of his arm flattened against mine. I didn't mind; it was warm.
And I didn't mind either when our hands bumped against each other and our fingers tangled, nor did I mind when Nate turned and slowly, cautiously pressed his lips to mine.
My intestinal tenants emerged in full force, flapping a tiny hurricane of exhilaration into existence. It spiraled in my chest and danced down the length of my spine, and its momentum swelled me toward Nate, sealing our mouths together.
It was different, and different in a way that made me feel as though everything before this point had been a little askew, a little off-center, but now I was righted, here in this rain, here with Nate.
It occurred to me then, a sudden spike of sourness in this resplendent haze, that I should mind the fact that I didn't mind any of this at all.
I couldn't blame it on alcohol; I've been drinking long enough to know when the point of drunken unreality takes over, and this wasn't it. This was purely me, and I had no idea what I was doing or whether I could cope with what my unknowing might lead to.
After all-
"My fiancée left me," I blurted, "on our wedding day. Four days ago."
Nate straightened, his head tilted toward me as though he needed to hear it again. "Oh," he said, blinking. His hand, splayed on my chest, moved up to rake
Once we were ensconced inside and seated at the bar, Nate said, "Oh my god, did you see the one in red?" He glanced furtively toward the entrance. "I used to date a guy who looked exactly like her."
I swiveled on my barstool a quarter-turn and leaned away from the bar, trying to get a better look.
Nate clouted me on the shoulder. "Don't stare," he laughed.
"What, you think it's him?" I said, squinting toward the ladyboy sparkling in crimson sequins while Nate ordered our beers. "Quite the looker."
"Yeah, well, I've always had excellent taste in men," he said.
He smiled serenely at me as he said it. I wasn't sure what to do with it, inordinately relieved when our beers appeared, scattering the rabble of butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach. The ones that staunchly clung to my insides I'd drown with alcohol.
We made it through two large bottles each, spending most of our time people-watching, making up stories about their lives, once quietly cheering to ourselves when the ladyboy in red scored a shy, curious customer.
When almost everyone in the bar was given their backstories, and in some cases, macabre futures involving hair loss and dental crises, we decided to call it a night. I was pleasantly warm by this time, the fizz of the beer making it all the way to my fingertips.
The air outside was humid, intangible until it formed a film of moisture on my skin, and it was a welcome change when cool raindrops began to patter all around us.
Gradually, more of them came to join their fallen brethren, and we picked up our pace, though not quickly enough. Without warning, somebody upstairs flipped a switch, and the rainfall turned into a torrent, drenching everyone in its way within seconds.
"What the hell?" Nate laughed, looking up at the sky.
"Mandatory wet T-shirt contest," I called out, though nobody paid me any attention, thank goodness.
Laughing like children but too old to jump in puddles, we ran to the shelter of a row of closed shophouses near our hotel to wait out the rain. Other people scurried by, slapping splashes of water into the air as they passed, opting to run to wherever they were going rather than taking refuge as we did. Maybe they knew something we didn't, maybe the downpour would last for hours.
We waited quietly for a few minutes, squeezing what water we could from our clothing, watching sheets of rain soak the earth. The streets gleamed, a pretty canvas of reflected street lamps and traffic lights.
I leaned against a narrow wall and Nate came with me, the side of his arm flattened against mine. I didn't mind; it was warm.
And I didn't mind either when our hands bumped against each other and our fingers tangled, nor did I mind when Nate turned and slowly, cautiously pressed his lips to mine.
My intestinal tenants emerged in full force, flapping a tiny hurricane of exhilaration into existence. It spiraled in my chest and danced down the length of my spine, and its momentum swelled me toward Nate, sealing our mouths together.
It was different, and different in a way that made me feel as though everything before this point had been a little askew, a little off-center, but now I was righted, here in this rain, here with Nate.
It occurred to me then, a sudden spike of sourness in this resplendent haze, that I should mind the fact that I didn't mind any of this at all.
I couldn't blame it on alcohol; I've been drinking long enough to know when the point of drunken unreality takes over, and this wasn't it. This was purely me, and I had no idea what I was doing or whether I could cope with what my unknowing might lead to.
After all-
"My fiancée left me," I blurted, "on our wedding day. Four days ago."
Nate straightened, his head tilted toward me as though he needed to hear it again. "Oh," he said, blinking. His hand, splayed on my chest, moved up to rake
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