On rain and Elvis Presley

and failed dates.

The singer in the metro passes from “tout le monde veut la même chose, tout le monde veut du cul” (everybody wants the same thing, everybody wants ass) to “I can’t help falling in love with you”. And nobody flinches — because nobody listens. Musicians in the metro somehow turn into this white noise in the background, begging for some compassion. Exactly what people lack, compassion.

I don’t wanna leave yet. I’ll let the metros pass, it’s better than arriving early. Besides, this is a new notebook and I kinda like to write on benches.

— — —

It’s pouring. I didn’t think it would be raining this much. That’ll teach me to check the weather channel. I don’t even think I’m dressed properly: my feet are already soaking in my white Converse and I look like Monica in Barbados with that hair of mine. This is going to be an interesting date. Actually, having drinks with a stranger is the last thing I need right now. Why did I even agree to see him? I am late and he’s waiting for me with a glass of gin… Come on, let’s do this.

But first things first. That umbrella you buy for 8 bucks at the metro station? No bueno. It gave up on me 2 meters in. No, it doesn’t work that way, umbrella. The earth isn’t upside down.. *sigh*

Plan B: Take a cab. I’ve already made it this far, might as well finish it. “Yes! Bar Waverly! It’s close by. You got caught by the rain, didn’t you?”. I shyly smile, trying to get my useless umbrella inside. “ I would’ve loved to walk but as you can see, it’s pouring. It’s the season, we’ll get used to it. It hopefully won’t rain this Sunday.” The driver laughs, shrugs and says “It always rains on Sundays. Comes Monday, you’ll see the sun shining again. But it would be too late. We should switch our Sundays. Let’s make them Mondays!” He sighs.

“We’re here, young lady. Bar Waverly.”

“Thank you. Have a great evening.”

My date is sitting right across the bar. Is it too late to turn my back and leave?

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