After the Rain

I'm the only one left on the rooftop, and the sky is doing something I don't like. It's gone that greenish-grey that means it's about to open up. My date texted forty minutes ago. On my way, she said. Then nothing.

Lena is behind the bar, wiping down the zinc counter with a rag, long slow strokes, as if she has nowhere else to be. Her left thumbnail is split right down the middle, an old injury that healed wrong. I can't stop looking at it.

She catches me. You're the last one. I can stay open if you want.

I glance at my phone. Still nothing. One more, I say. Something that tastes like the rain.

She pours without asking what I mean. Amaro, dark and bitter. It lands in the glass and the first fat drops hit the glass panels behind me. The string lights strung overhead flicker once, then die. The candles are still there, though. Mismatched glasses with little flames already dancing, like she lit them an hour ago, before the storm even thought about arriving.

A crack of thunder rolls over the building, and the whole terrace goes dark except for those candles. Lena reaches under the counter and pulls out a brass zippo. There's a mermaid engraved on the side, her tail curved. She lights the candles she hasn't gotten to yet, one by one, her hand steady while the wind tears through the awning.

My phone buzzes against the zinc. I flip it over. The text says she can't make it, the trains are down, sorry, rain check. I read it out loud to Lena. She shrugs, pockets the lighter, and pours two glasses instead of one.

The elevator's out, she says. The power flickered. You're stuck with me.

I wasn't going anywhere.

She pushes a glass toward me. Her split thumbnail taps the rim once, a tiny sound under the thunder. Somewhere behind us, the elevator groans in its shaft, a long metallic moan that fades and leaves us alone with the storm.

Lena leans against the register and lights one more candle, close to my elbow. She says she lives one floor down. This is basically her living room on nights off. The storm bangs into the glass panels and the flame doesn't move.

I ask if being stuck up here is a problem for her. She smiles and says no, she's got nowhere to go either way. Then she comes out from behind the bar and starts checking the candles on the high tables, pinching wicks, straightening the little glasses.

There's a bowl of maraschino cherries behind the bar. I saw her eat three of them earlier, one by one, pulling each from the stem with her teeth. She hasn't offered me one. I don't know why that feels like something.

The rain hits the glass in sheets now, so loud I can't hear the city below. She turns and asks if I'm disappointed about the date. She's just standing there in the candlelight, one hand on a stool, waiting.

I'm not disappointed, I say. I'm relieved.

The word lands between us and she doesn't look away. Neither do I.

The wind shifts. Rain blows in under the awning, wetting the floor in long silver streaks, and Lena motions toward the rattan sofa on the other side of the terrace. Come sit. The wind's turning.

She picks up the bowl of cherries and our two glasses, balances them like she's done it a thousand times, which she has. I follow her. The sofa is low, with thick cushions, and I sink into it. She sits close enough that our knees almost touch.

Her linen shirt is damp at the shoulders, clinging to her skin, and the fabric has gone nearly transparent in the candlelight. I look at my glass instead. She holds out a cherry by the stem, right in front of my mouth.

You eat them like they're a secret, I say.

I bite down and the sugar hits my tongue. Her fingers stay near my lips a second too long before she lets go. The stem is still wet between her thumb and finger. She drops it back in the bowl, and the rain drums on the awning above us, steady and close.

My skirt has ridden up my thighs without me noticing. Lena notices. Her eyes drop, then come back to my face, and she doesn't pretend she wasn't looking. The candle on the low table throws its heat against my bare knee, a small warm circle I can feel through my skin.

What do you do when you're not waiting on rooftops, she asks.

I'm usually the one pouring the drinks.

She laughs, and it's low, cut off by another roll of thunder. Her hand rests on the cushion between us, close enough that her knuckles brush my thigh through the fabric of my skirt. I feel the warmth of it, the weight of her hand just sitting there, not moving.

I keep talking. I tell her about the bar I work at, the regulars, the way closing down alone feels. She listens. She watches my mouth. Her hand stays where it is.

I picture it before I mean to. Lena lifting me onto the zinc counter, one arm sweeping the glasses aside, my back against the cold metal. Her mouth on mine with the rain still in her hair. Our shadows thrown huge against the glass panels by the candles. I shift on the sofa, my thighs pressing together.

Lena says, You're cold.

I'm not cold.

You're shivering, so you're cold.

Before I can answer, she pushes up from the sofa and crosses to the bar. She reaches into a drawer under the register and comes back with something dark and folded. Silk. She shakes it out once, and the fabric ripples like water in the candlelight.

She drapes it over my shoulders from behind. Her thumbs brush the sides of my neck as she settles the fabric against my collarbone. The silk is cool at first, then warm. It smells like cedar and something sweet.

Lena doesn't step away. Her hands stay on my shoulders, just resting there. Outside, the rain comes down harder, and the candles gutter, and I don't move.

Thunder rolls over the building so deep it sits in my chest, and Lena's hands don't move from my shoulders. She's still behind me. I lean back, just a little, until my spine finds the heat of her.

It was my grandmother's, she says.

I turn my head enough to see her face in the candlelight. The robe, the silk, the way it holds warmth. Do you always keep it behind the bar?

Only for nights like this.

Her fingers find the edge of the collar and trace it slowly along my shoulder. Then they dip lower, follow the line of my collarbone, and stop right where the rain left its salt on my skin. She doesn't press. She just rests them there, like she's reading something.

The storm slams the glass panels and the candles all lean sideways at once. Lena's split thumbnail drags against my collarbone, that tiny imperfect edge, and my breath stops in my throat.

Sorry, she says. I didn't mean to—

Don't be sorry. Do it again.

Her fingers move, slow, tracing the salt the rain left on me. Her thumb presses into the hollow of my throat, then lifts. I turn fully toward her on the sofa, one leg tucked under me, and she's so close I can see the candle flame reflected in her eyes.

Kiss me, I say.

She doesn't hesitate. Her hand comes up to my jaw and she leans in, and the rain fills every other sound.

Lena's lips land soft, then not soft. Her mouth opens against mine and I taste the amaro, dark and almost burnt. One hand stays on my jaw, the other slides into my hair at the nape, and she holds me there as if she's been waiting for permission.

I make a sound I don't recognize. She swallows it.

Her split thumbnail scrapes my skin again as her hand moves down my neck, and I can feel that tiny ridge of broken nail catch on every inch of me. It's the only thing that feels real besides her mouth.

She pulls back just enough to breathe. I'm sorry, she whispers against my throat. I've wanted to do that all night.

Stop apologizing, I say, and do it again.

She does. Slower this time. Her lips part over my collarbone, and then her tongue finds the salt there, tasting what the storm left behind, and I stop thinking about anything else.

I pull her down by the front of her shirt, the damp linen bunching in my fist. She comes willingly, half over me, and the sofa shifts under our weight. Her knee finds the cushion between my legs.

The kiss goes deeper. Her tongue slides against mine and I follow, my free hand finding her hip, pressing hard enough to feel the bone. The rain is a steady roar and the candles throw our shadows long against the glass panels.

She breaks away, her lips trailing down to my jaw. I'm sorry, she murmurs into the hinge of my jaw. I've wanted this since you ordered the amaro.