She walks out in rain

I wanted to write this scene, but prose seemed too daunting for eleven o'clock at night (which then stretched into one o'clock in the morning).  So this happened.  And it happened better than I expected it to, so go me!  Inspired by the ever-charming Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton.  If I ever manage a literary relationship half as precious and perfect I will consider it an accomplishment.

She walks out in rain

In high black heels and short black coat

Under a black umbrella

And nobody knows her name, nobody

Knows her name

Hair pulled up

Lips pulled up

In a press-on smile colored

Wine-to-the-light red

She parts the crowd like she’s holding a gun

Eyes roll off her

The way the city smog wicks off rain

She is a pretty thing lost in the beauty of life

She is a pretty sketch hung in the coat room of the Louvre

And she placed herself there

Across the sea of taxi cabs

Flickers the sign for a self-possessed coffee shop

She waits for the crosswalk light like everyone else

Floats over a white line bridge with

More conviction and less care

Than Tibbets over Hiroshima

She enters to the tinkling of a tiny bell

No one looks up, she is a ghost, she

Shakes the water from her umbrella

Hangs it on the overfull rack by the door

Orders a chai tea from the girl behind the counter

Takes the darkest seat at the table in the brightest side of the room

Waits for the city to catch up

Finger by finger

She strips off her gloves

Sets them neatly aside and

Folds her hands around the tea that comes

In a beige porcelain mug

She inhales and thinks of Hyderabad

The crescent moon lipstick gains a shade of sincerity

He is already here

She could tell from the street

The way the light fell from the windows

To the sidewalk

Slantways, as though

Tumbling through a poor quality mirror

Displaced like water

Dispelled like a rumor

Making room for his shining soul

And the leeching sins

Eyes meet across the huddled tables

He smirks, blows steam off his coffee

She can smell the two creams and no sugar

She tilts her head in a toast and fingers the rim of her mug

This time he gives in

Takes his cream and caffeine

And the other seat at her table

Pleasantries are exchanged

He has been in Berlin, she

Is wearing Colombian jet lag

She smells nice, he

Is cultivating the five o’clock shadow

And he almost coaxes a laugh from her lips

Time is sluggish and cannot be bothered

On rare occasions when he is so close

But she has a flight to catch

And must change her mask on the way

So she unbuttons her jacket

Smiling, he stiffens

Then releases unsprung when he sees it is only paper

She slides it to him

Her fingers are long, her nails short

Before he can unfold it

She is up and to the door

The umbrella is in her hand and she is outside

With a farewell whispered in another language, maybe French

The rain has picked up but she walks three blocks

Before hailing a cab

And slipping inside

Umbrella folded neatly

On the bench beside her like a well-trained dog

In silence she pictures

The coffee shop on the corner

He will open the paper

Skim the contents only to get to

The lipstick signature in the bottom margin

The information will be handed to higher-ups

Promptly, faithfully

Word for word

But he will keep the signature to himself

Stick it in his pocket with the lint and the others

She knows it

As surely as he knew it would be there

He leaves a tip on the table

Beside the empty cup of coffee

And the untouched tea

Turns up his collar

Steps out in the dark

The cab pulses through the city

She dozes in the back and thinks of Saint Petersburg

Raindrops hit the windshield

Like split-second decisions, like

Steps toward a conclusion

With practiced precision

The windshield wipers shrug it off