I am outside the movie theater, and it is raining. The watch in my right hand says it’s nine thirty P.M. My left shoe says it’s too torn to walk in the rain without some of the rain accidentally seeping into my sock. My right shoe says it’s OK. My jacket says it’s getting really wet, but it can take it. My shirt says the jacket’s doing a really poor job. The flowers in my left hand say they like the rain. My right hand says it’s too late, and it does so without looking at the watch. In the purest of aspects, my right hand’s right. The movie probably finished fifteen minutes ago and she hasn’t come out.

My brain says she’s probably making out with some other guy inside the theater. My heart says there’s no way that’s happening. The other guy’s lips says I better believe it because it’s totally going down. Her lips say it’s nothing personal. Her brain says it is. Her right leg says his hand is going way too high. Her left leg says it’s fine. His left hand says it wants to go higher. Her eyes can’t say anything because they’re closed, but his eyes are wide open and they’re saying that those breasts look like a C cup for sure, maybe even a D. Her throat can’t really say anything since his tongue seems to be doing all the talking.

Still, the rain tells me to go home and the horn of the passing taxi asks if I need a ride and my head simply responds, no. The posters outside the cinema say I would like the movie showing after this one, just in case I have nothing to do with my time. My watch gets excited at the mention of time. My wallet says if I watch a movie right now I’ll have to return home walking. My shoes, in one voice, say that walking home is not going to be very comfortable. My wet socks agree. My feet just nod.

Her shirt says it wants to come off but her brain says it’s not coming off inside the theater. The janitor’s glasses say that shirt’s coming off for sure because he hasn’t been standing here for the last ten minutes to not see some decent action. His broom just wants it to be over so she can get to cleaning. The mop agrees. His new pants say they feel uncomfortable with the newly found tension and his boxers say they should just get used to it. His seat says it’s gotten way too warm and it would like it if he just got up and left, but no one listens to seats anyway.

My watch says it’s too late and my jacket says it’s too late and my wet hair insists it’s been too late for quite a while and the flowers in my left hand say it’s never too late but flowers are stupid anyway. My shoes want to get a cab and my socks want to dry off and my jacket wants to rest on a nice clean hanger and my shirt wants to be washed and my glasses just want to see her, and I’m in no place to comply with all their demands right now because it’s nine forty-five P.M and it’s raining so much my legs say I’m thirty percent heavier now than fifteen minutes ago.

Her mouth just asked him if he wants to get out of there and his mouth says yes. And the janitor’s glasses are disappointed and both his hands are disappointed but excited and her shirt can’t wait to be off and her hair can’t wait to get loose and her legs can’t wait to spread and the broom can’t wait to clean. His car keys in his pocket can’t wait to turn his car on and his car can’t wait to drive and his bed can’t wait to have people on top of it and my heart finally says it’s too late.

The flowers in my left hand fall to the trash can next to the movie theater and the trash can thanks me loudly as the tires from the cab I just signaled seem to sigh in relief. My shoes are relieved and my socks stop worrying but are still wet and my hands are trembling and I can’t understand what they’re saying and my glasses can’t see a thing and my jacket thanks me but does nothing to make me feel better and my watch says it’s almost ten P.M. My right hand closes the cab door as my mouth mumbles my address and the cabbie nods in understanding and his feet cheer having some kind of purpose again.

The theater door opens with a low hum of appreciation as their clothes and their hair discover it’s raining outside and his hands offer his jacket to her just because he wants too look like a gentleman, and her mouth mutters a quiet thank you and her nose smells the cologne he’s wearing and finally comes to the conclusion that his jacket smells like me. And her eyes says they’re not crying and her brain says they are and her cheeks say it’s a good thing it’s raining and the tears get confused with the raindrops falling from her face to her chest to her legs to her feet to the floor.

Then her eyes see the flowers in the trash.


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