by Belinda Roddie The raindrops glistened on her eyelashes as we danced. The rain was heavy, and it was cold. It made the grass clump against our shoes and the gray pavement a slick, oily black. It made nearby cars shine and lamp lights glitter with dozens of metallic stars. "Twirl for me, sugar," she murmured in my ear as she pulled herself into me. I twirled for her. "That's a good girl." When we were done dancing, we went outside and took off our wet coats, and we settled into wooden chairs before she put a kettle on the stove. The kitchen smelled like rain and tea leaves and salt. I never knew salt had a distinct odor until now. I breathed it in, and I was by the sea hundreds of miles away. "Do you dance in the rain often?" I asked her. "Not often. I could get sick." "It's very cinematic of you." "Oh?" "Romantic. People dancing in the rain. Kissing in the rain." "Have we kissed yet?...
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