Out of Sight
Before we turned the corner onto Washington, I took the umbrella from her right hand and grasped it in my left. She hooked her arm around mine, and we walked for a while in the rain — a right onto Water Street, then a left onto Kilby.
“There’s another place I could take you,” she said to me.
“What time is it?” I asked. (A stupid question; we were out of time.)
She checked her watch, and I gave her a hug under the umbrella. She didn’t hug back, but I didn’t care. I needed to hold someone.
Earlier, back at the bar, I had folded my glasses and tucked them into my shirt pocket. At some point — probably during the nonreciprocal hug — they fell out of my pocket and I didn’t notice.
So now I’m headed back home a little blinder than usual. I’ll need to stand a few steps closer to the subway signs in order to read them. The storefronts along Manhattan Avenue will look more blurry than I’m used to.
It will be temporary — just until I get a new pair of glasses. But until then, I have a bit of a problem: All I can think about is what that dumb, fleeting, unnecessary hug in the rain was worth to me.
