She stood on a street corner, rain pouring down and beating hard against the magazine she held over her head in a vain effort to stay dry. When she had left that morning, the sun had shone as if focusing all the heat of the summer season into a single glorious day. She had decided to wear only a sleeveless top and a pair of shorts; she knew the outfit would draw the attention of all the men she would encounter. Her top was fairly low-cut, tight and white. Her shorts were black and fit snugly against the sides of her shapely hips. Her breasts bulged by the pressure of her push-up bra; she had been satisfied by the impact she would create.
But now, as it neared 9 o’clock in the evening, she wished for a raincoat -- the rain had started to sting her flesh and cool the air. Water flowed over the sides of the magazine and down her arms. But what made her shiver the most was the water flowing down her shoulders, around her neck, and down her cleavage. Her body tingled as the cool water conflicted with her hot flesh. But walking quickly, she managed to slip under the awning of a doorway near the bus stop. If the public transportation wasn’t late, she could be home by ten.
Across the street, he waited aimlessly at another bus stop. He wore a black T-shirt and slacks. Sitting on a bench, he felt the water run down his shaven head and over his features. The water was perhaps the only thing calming him enough to leash his howls of anger; he glared at the watch he had been given on his birthday. He tore it off and threw it away with all his strength. It landed across the street. He then leaned his head back and let the rain cover his face with its cool comfort. If it could wash away the image of his girlfriend riding another man, he would be happy. He then bent forward and watched water flow into a gutter. Maybe that’s where I’m headed, he pondered as rain water poured into his eyes.
She turned when she heard something splash in a puddle near her feet. She looked around and noticed a watch reflecting the light from a nearby street lamp. She picked it up and saw that it was still ticking. As she wondered where the watch came from, she saw him sitting on a bench, indifferent to the downpour. She looked down both sides of the street – all she saw was the line of lamps that illuminated the raindrops as they crossed the cones of light. Taking a risk, she ran across the street and approached him. She realized she had seen him before – everyday in fact. Actually, every morning. He always stood at that very bus stop -- probably when he went to work. As she noticed the way his shirt was sticking to his large chest and shoulders, she suddenly hoped he had noticed her as well.
“Is this yours?” she asked, shivering a bit from the increasing wind.
He looked up at her as she presented the watch. “It is,” he answered. “My girlfriend gave it to me.” He stood, took the watch and threw it back across the street, where it finally shattered and broke. “I don’t want to have it anymore.” He sat back down and listened to the rain.
She looked at him, her mouth open, stunned at his actions. “Why’d you do that?”
“My girl told me the watch was to keep track of all out good times together. Then I found her in bed with another man. I punched him and told her to leave. That’s why I threw the watch away.”
“Bummer,” she mused. “And the whole sitting barefoot in the rain thing?”
“I don’t feel like crying. The rain cries for me.”
“That’s… weird. Are you always this weird?”
“Pretty much. Except when I sleep. Then I just snore.”
She giggled and sat down next to him before realizing the bench was soaked. But ignoring the wetness – she started to wonder if it was only the rain -- she tossed her magazine aside and mirrored his posture. He watched her from the corner of his eye; the rain had made her white camisole sheer and the lace of her bra underneath was becoming intangible. As she leaned her head back and let the rain pelt her dark hair, he savored the way her nipples pierced her garments and challenged the cool air. Even in the dimly lit street, he was struck by how her tanned skin glowed beneath the streetlights. Her limbs were long and limber, and yet she retained sensually curved hips and large, beckoning breasts the beguiled her athletic shape.
“What are you doing?” he asked, suddenly wary of her intrusion.
“I’m just sitting with a stranger in the rain. And I’m wondering why you’re a stranger.”
“There’s a logical explanation for that.”
“Hmm?”
“We don’t know each other.”
Again, she giggled and gave his shoulder a good punch. She then bit her lower lip and felt a tingle between her thighs: his shoulder muscles were rock hard. She brought her legs together and shifted her position to face him – his eyes were bouncing from her tits to her full lips. His eyes were grey and sorrowful while his lashes were long and full. He blinked rapidly against the rain that ran down his broad nose – she loved the natural flare of his nostrils. And there were his lips – thick and heart-shaped; they could almost be a woman’s lips.
“I happen to know a lot about you,” she said as she slid closer to him. He did not appear to react, but she could see his thigh muscles tense through his pants.
“I know you work 3 blocks from here. You wear a suit every day except for Wednesday – I think you play tennis or racquetball or something… I know you have a tattoo of the cardinal points on the back of your head – kinda cute actually. What’s up with that?”
“What’s up with you knowing all that stuff about me? Are you a stalker? Be kind of cool if you were…”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“No… no I don’t. Trust me though, I’m never going to forget the way you look right now.”
A satisfied smile spread across her face. “I take the same bus you do. In the morning. I usually wear glasses… and a uniform.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek and started to stroke his chin as he searched his routine for any memory of her. “You usually sit two seats in front of me reading Time magazine, right?”
“Bingo!” she exclaimed as she tapped her nose. “I think we’ve been taking the bus together for the past year.”
“Hmmm… You’re a waitress too, right?”
“Give the man another gold star… I work at Larkin’s. I’ve served you lunch a few times. You’re a good tipper.”
He laughed a bit. “Well, you’re a good dipper.”
“What?”
