The Downpour Over Kent

It was raining hard in Kent, the kind of downpour that makes the world feel smaller. By closing time we were the only two left in the pub, except for the young guy behind the bar drying glasses and pretending not to watch us. She kept one hand on her wine and the other under the table, brushing my leg first by accident, then on purpose. I didn't stop her. I didn't look away. When she leaned in close enough for her breath to warm my neck, I let the moment swallow whatever sense I'd walked in with. Outside, the alleyway was slick with rain. She pressed herself against me, her breasts pushing into my side, her mouth urgent, fingers hooked into my jacket like she needed the anchor. Then her cab pulled up, headlights bleaching the dark. Her lips were still wet when she mouthed one thing before the door closed: 'Don't call me.'