v. love comes to town

You're in a bar, drink in hand, and you're almost alone: the night hasn't yet begun. The sun is still up, a headier, saturated orange, and a miracle rain is falling – the kind where the drops are heavy, but infrequent. It's heading west, where you had just come from, and there is thunder still in the air: however, darkness had still not fallen.

You've been here for hours, sitting and tapping your feet to the greatest hits of Heart. The bartender (the owner) knows his regulars, and it's a small enough town that he decides to know you; he stands by your side of the bar, deeper in the dim corner, and tells you stories about his travels to the east coast, looking for dolphins and finally finding them just as he started to give up.

You say it's a pleasant story, and then you ask for the telephone. He obliges, and moves to the other side, closer to the door, where three muscled men in their thirties have just walked in. You watch them for a second, and one of them – blond with sharp eyes – watches you.

You grin, and look back down to your drink. It's amber in this light.

There's a movie in your mind when you close your eyes – he is walking, walking in the heated rain, smoke twisting round his legs as the earth hissed its displeasure. He's in the middle of the street, his face hidden from any observers (you) but you feel the burn of his eyes.

The payphone rings, its cry travelling only just so he can hear it past the sound of rain. You can feel his grin on your lips when he steps into the booth and picks up the receiver.

"Hello," you say when it's picked up because you know it's him on the other end. The phone burns in your hand because you know it's him on the other end.

"Hi."

The smugness is dripping down his sleeves and onto the floor. It saturates the air with some sort of hidden laughter: not even two words, and you hate it; your back goes straight and your lips go stiff.

You called him. You don't know why or how or what happened.

But your lips know, and your chest burns again: it is a familiar pain when you speak to him. Your skin is hot and cold and rough now, but aware, reaching. In vain, it senses, but it cannot touch what it searches for, and it seems to know what it wants before you do.

You ask him,

"Are you all right?"

A pause.

"Well, that's a new one," his voice is pleased, ecstatic at some semblance of concern in your words, if not in your tone, "I'm awesome! You getting tired of hiding from me yet?"

"You're going to have to stop eventually."

"Nope, nope, nope. You're mine, Artie."

"My name is Arthur. And we'll have to see about that."

"I'll see you at the Dolphin."

His grin.

Then the dial tone.

Fuck.