People doing stuff

Rain. It was going to rain, and that was the long and short of it. He could not stop the rain by wishing or willing, though he tried both as he clenched the steering wheel. It couldn’t rain. Not yet. Not while he was still driving the truck. Not while the desk was still in the back of the truck. Uncovered. Vulnerable. Exposed.

“Please please please,” he said and lurched forward in his seat. The truck wasn’t moving, because of the stop light. The rain was falling, sporadic kamikaze drops on the windshield. He turned the wipers on and hoped, but they didn’t move. He knew they wouldn’t. The light turned green and he lunged forward, his feet amateurishly working the clutch and the gas in his almost-panic. He smoothed out and slipped into third just to catch the next red light.

“No,” he pleaded and watched the clouds again. The drops were falling faster and he looked for shelter. He was still blocks away from her house and he doubted he’d make it.

“Come on,” he urged the red light and wiggled his knees. It turned green and he lunged forward again as the drops fell heavily. Everything was cast in gray and his face was close to the windshield, as if it would help. He was a block away, now. At a half-block away the rain slacked and he rolled down his window and watched the yellow lines as he parked. It was the closest he could get. The desk would just have to wait. He rolled up the window and struggled into his jacket when the rain began to fall with its fullest intensity. He’d have to run the half-block and hope she let him in. He made it as far as an awning across the street before he decided it was a stupid idea. The rain was cold and fell so hard it hurt. His jacket was thin and he shivered.

There was a yowl. It was unmistakably a yowl, and a second rose up to accompany it. He looked around for the source, pacing a few steps to the right and left and holding his head at angles to isolate the sound. Storm drain. There was a storm drain in the middle of the sidewalk. Exposed, unprotected by any storefront. So he ignored it; he was wet enough. The yowling stopped and screeching began. He stared at the drain and stomped his feet. His shoes squished and he decided he couldn’t get any wetter.

He tried to put his jacket over his head but it made him clumsy, so he gave it up less than three steps from the awning. He squatted and pried the grate away from the drain and slid it over just enough to stick his hands in.

"Kittens." He already knew, but said it anyway. Said it like he'd guessed the end of a movie. He made a basket in his shirt and dropped the first kitten in and closed the basket while he fished for the second. It scrambled around in the drain. The first one scrambled in his shirt. He felt fur in his fingers and grabbed. Black. The first was gray. He opened the basket and dropped it in and shoved the writhing, yowling lump under the edge of his jacket. He held them tightly and sprinted the rest of the way to her building.

He ran up the steps and left puddles on the floor in the hallway. She’d know what to do with two half-drowned kittens. She always knew what to do. Always. He’d never gotten to teach her anything, and that was a reason he’d left. He regretted it every day. Especially now. Especially in the rain, and especially with kittens in a shirt-basket under his jacket. She’d know what to do.

He didn’t knock on the door. He twisted the knob and swung the door open and staggered in. He shook his head and loose water peppered her entry-way. Good thing the art was in glass. Good thing her papers were behind the wooden door of the secretary in the entryway. Everything else dripped. He dripped with it. He didn’t notice her red-painted fingernails. Or the man sitting on the sofa. He noticed she wasn’t wearing an apron, and he noticed the scratching against his stomach, in between his chest and his belly button.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered and hugged his arms around the lump. “I was bringing a desk for you, but I couldn’t make it because of the rain.” She was frowning. He never remembered her frowning, and frowned too. The man on the sofa mentioned a towel. She kept one in the kitchen, ten steps away. He watched her walk away and admired her backside. He missed it. The man on the sofa shifted. The towel was soft and yellow and he let go of his jacket. He balanced the towel in his arm and pulled the kittens out of his shirt. Yowling. The wet material stuck to his wet skin and didn’t move. His stomach was uncovered, exposed. He shifted. He looked at them and looked back at her.

“I knew you’d know what to do.” All three looked half-drowned. She smiled. A smile. Finally, a smile. He loved her smile, even when it was different.

“Are you going to stay?” It was her question. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t supposed to be here, because he’d left her. But he regretted it. He was sorry, and he missed her. She reached for the kittens and he nodded. She told the man on the sofa she’d call. It was a lie. They all knew it was a lie. She hugged the wet kittens against her chest. The man left and the door slammed. He took off his wet shoes. His feet were wrinkled, exposed. He felt vulnerable. She was smiling at him from over her shoulder.

“Welcome home, Brad.”