The rain came without warning, the way some things did.
She was already under the awning when he ducked in — not seeing her first, just taking shelter, and then seeing her. That sequence mattered. She watched him absorb it.
"Hey," he said. "Hey," she said. The word they'd used a thousand times, in the dark, in the morning, in doorways not unlike this one. It still meant everything and nothing.
The street was emptying. A cab sluiced past and she wanted to raise her hand and didn't.
His arm was against hers from shoulder to elbow. He didn't shift it. She didn't either. That was all it was — two people caught in the rain, the length of a forearm — and she felt it like a hand pressed flat.
"You look—" he started. "Don't," she said. He smiled, which was worse. He always knew when she was trying not to be looked at.
The rain had that particular smell of summer and concrete, and beneath it, just faintly, him. She'd washed his shirts once. She'd stopped making sense of that memory a long time ago.
"How long does it last?" he asked. "I don't know. I never check the weather." He said, "Still." She said, "Still."
A bus went by and blocked the street whole. When it passed, the rain was slowing and she understood that in another minute there would be no reason to stay.
She didn't move. Neither did he. His arm was still there, and she thought: this is the most honest thing I've done in weeks.