“I’d be fucked in a rainstorm,” she says.
We’re in the car, on our way to dinner. I’m driving, she’s sitting in the front because she gets car sick. In the backseat, her husband, my wife, are discussing risotto recipes and affordable childcare.
Outside, it looks like rain. And she’s talking about her torn raincoat, discussing defective rain gear—but that’s not what I hear. I hear, making love in a downpour, I hear, getting soaking wet between hungry kisses—lightning, thunder—
Then, lying around like puddles after a late September shower, making small talk about what the weather will bring.