Pieces of you

“‘It didn’t rain on Saturday.’ 'It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.’ 'That sounds very painful.’ 'No, it sounds beautiful.’”

"Rescue me," I say. "What?" Let's dance together, speak together, compose sentences that will bridge the space between my chair and your coach, between my sterile white dress shirt and your unbuttoned blouse. "Nothing," I hurriedly say.

"When I stop at a stop sign, I don't think about the distance I've crossed," he says. "I just wish l never had to stop."