by Tricia Friedman
It wasn't raining. Not then, when you arrived at my door. There is one flight of stairs after the elevator jostles itself open at 11, as though it nodded off on its way up. I let you in, and the way that lover's on lent time have to love, we undressed quickly. Somewhere, in between bookends of kisses, Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor came from my stereo, it seemed to cue the July rain. Sergei can stay the hell out of my apartment now.
Tricia Friedman is currently a Peace Corps Volunteer, living in a valley among Morocco's Atlas Mountains.