He often thought about the night they walked gone after their first date. How the they stood in the pouring rain on her front stoop, as if in some kind of romantic comedy, only it wasn’t Hollywood. Not in even close. Not by a country mile as some would say. He moved in and she fainted, and she moved and he was out of position. And then they moved to the same space, instinctual, and their lips met. And it was quick and warm and electric. And it might not be Hollywood. But after she had gone inside and he watched her disappear up the stairs. He knew with so much clarity it made his arms tingle, made his geart beat so loud that felt so fucking good, for the briefest of moments he wondered if it was normal, if perhaps something else was going on , something that may require an ambulance and emergency room. But that soon passed, and the bus drove past him as he didn’t run to the stop. Tonight was a night for walking. A night of cold rain and a warm kiss. Of possibility and new begging.