our way to the ladiesâ room. âShelly seems sweet,â she said. âLike him?â
âI havenât decided,â I said. âHeâs cute enough and very funny. But then sometimes heâs kind of . . . disturbing.â
When we returned, Lou and Shelly were watching a platinum blonde with enormous boobs dancing in what appeared to be a tiny, blue bikini top over matching blue short-shorts. The two guys were practically drooling.
âWhat do you think she does during the day?â Ann-Marie asked me.
âSupreme Court justice?â
Ann-Marie grabbed the sides of Louâs head and turned it away from the platinum blonde. âTime to go.â
We said our goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous. Ann-Marie led Lou across the dance floor.
Shelly was still staring at the bouncing blonde.
âDo you want to go, too?â I asked, shouting over the beat, beat, beat.
He finished his beer. âNo way. Itâs still early.â He took my hand and led me back onto the dance floor. We danced a long time, drank a few beers, then danced some more.
When we finally stepped out of the club, it was nearly two in the morning. A cold spring rain poured down hard. West Twelfth Street was shiny with water running in the curbs like rivers. Rain pattered the tin roofs of the meat-market warehouses.
âIt must have been raining a long time,â I said, grabbing his arm. âMaybe we can get a cab on Tenth.â
Shelly laughed and raised his face to the rain. âCab? Why do we need a cab?â He pulled me onto the sidewalk.
âWe donât have umbrellas. I donât have a raincoat or anything,â I complained. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
A taxi rolled up to the restaurant across the street, and a couple climbed into it.
Shelly pulled off his blazer and wrapped it around my shoulders. âDonât you love rain? Itâs so fresh and . . . and . . . wet.â
How many beers did he drink? I wasnât counting, but . . .
âShelly, weâre getting drenched! Letâs jog to Tenth and find a cab.â
âBut, Lindy, doesnât the rain make you want to sing?â
âSing? Hel-lo. Weâre drowning here.â
He began belting out âSinging in the Rainâ at the top of his lungs.
I heard laughter and saw a couple under a black umbrella, arms around each other, laughing as they hurried past.
How lame is this? I thought, watching him do a splashy tap dance as he sang.
Sorry, Shelly. Youâre pushing it with the Gene Kelly act.
âHey, donât you like that song?â Shelly asked, grabbing my arm. Water soaked through his shirt. His hair was matted to his forehead.
âNo way!â Laughing, I pulled him down the block, his blazer over my head.
A taxi appeared at the corner, windshield wipers sending up a spray of water. It had its OFF-DUTY sign lit, but the driver pulled over and asked where we were going. When I told him Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam, he said, âJump in.â
I climbed in and slid across the seat. Shelly stood at the car door, shaking water off like a dog. Then he lowered himself into the cab. The driver grumbled something. I couldnât hear him through the Plexiglas divider. The taxi took off, wheels whirring on the rain-slicked street.
Breathing hard, raindrops clinging to his dark eyebrows, running down his cheeks, Shelly pretended to pout. âI didnât get to finish the song.â He hummed a few more bars.
âYouâre totally crazy,â I said.
He wiped water from his forehead. âYeah. Tell me something I donât know.â
âYou look normal, but youâre not,â I teased.
âSometimes I lose it a little,â he said solemnly, lowering his eyes. âTherapy doesnât help. Iâm thinking of joining an Ashram.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
I leaned close and kissed his cheek. It felt cold and wet, like a fish.
He
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