London After Midnight

DISCLAIMER: Word has it the site will be down on the 17th and 18th so I won't be able to update again until after that, but I promise to make the next chapter very worth your while.

MANY THANKS: Thank you ShadowyFigure for your compliments, thank you Auron for your continued praise, and a special thank you to jtbwriter, because it's nice to know that every once in a while even a Jordan and Woody fan can tolerate and appreciate a Jordan and Nigel fic.

This chapter is dedicated to Watson1. Your review made me feel incredibly honored and humbled. May we all get our own Nigel in life and may we all crush a little bit of Woody's soul in doing so. Or something profound like that. :)

Chapter Seven

"I Think It's Not To Be"

Nigel

Two shakes of a lamb's tail.

I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks as I hang up the phone and replace it in my pocket. I've never heard Jordan use that phrase before. She must have overheard Bug and I as she was closing her office door the other day. I'm filled with shame and shock and curiosity at the thought - What other things has Jordan overheard throughout the years? What other things does she know that I didn't intend for her to find out?

I feel strangely like a young boy waiting for her outside her apartment building. My black jeans and leather jacket may as well be a parochial school uniform and my Harley may as well be a Schwinn ten-speed bicycle. I'm nervous and giddy, my stomach filled with butterflies, and I can't deny the thought that this is a bit different than all the other times Jordan and I have gone out together. I suppose because all the other times we were part of the general workplace crowd, or her father at least was chaperoning us. This time it's just she and I, the both of us alone, and somehow it keeps nagging at me that this feels undeniably like a first date.

But of course I'm being ridiculous. It was utter folly that I even called her up at all tonight, I intended very much to go straight home after work and watch the telly until bedtime. But we had just got in half a dozen victims of a freak automobile accident and I had spent the entire day working on them, cutting and probing and sewing back up, staring at blank faces and smelling death. I needed human contact, and not just the company of strangers. I needed Jordan. I always need Jordan, but especially tonight. I need her wit and her charm and her sarcasm, the sweet smell of her hair and the satisfied feeling of accomplishment that fills me after making her smile or laugh. The deep melodic sound of her voice and all the little plutonic touches that an evening out with Jordan promises to deliver; her hand on my shoulder or my fingers around her wrist. It was a bold and rash thing to do, calling and asking to borrow a few hours of her time, and I honestly don't know where I summoned the courage from. But now I'm glad I did. I'm glad. Because she accepted, and in just a few moments time we'll be off on our first little adventure, just Jordan and I.

Pathetic bastard, hisses a niggling voice from somewhere deep inside of me. She doesn't love you. She'll never love you. You're wasting your time.

"Oh bugger off," I whisper, staring down at the eerie translucence of my own fingernails against the vibrating metal of the bike. "I'll do what I bloody well please."

The loud slamming of a door jolts my body to attention and causes me to fully realize just how nervous I am. My head snaps up and my eyes instantly widen as they collide with the image of Jordan Cavanaugh hurrying down the walkway towards me, her hair curling and loose and swaying in rhythm with the leaves in the trees and the skirt of a long purple dress. I stand up straight, my heart pounding almost audibly.

"Love-" I attempt to call out to her, but I can't seem to find my voice; the word surfaces weakly. I attempt to disentangle myself from the bike but I kept the engine on as she requested and the tires leap forward a foot or so, nearly dragging me behind them. I grab a good hold on the handlebars and manage to shift into park successfully before I go too far, but as soon as I turn to step away from the bike, I trip over the curb and lose my footing. I'm flat on my face on the sidewalk before I even have time to process my own bumbling awkwardness, my eyes inches away from Jordan's boots. Broken-in black Doc Martens, almost exactly like the pair I'm wearing right now.

"Hello, love," I lift my chin to grin sheepishly up at her, my pulse racing, my entire face scorching hot. "It seems I've fallen for you."

She stoops lithely down to ground level and a shameful smile curves her lips, although she does manage to keep her laughter from surfacing. "Jeez, Nige, we haven't even started drinking yet," she quips, turning her palm up for me to take. "Clumsy limey," she adds, and warmth floods my body like bathwater at the softness of the insult, the almost affectionate quality to it.

"You look..." Never have there been two words in the English language that sounded more cliché than the ones which I have just uttered. "Scratch that, love. Suffice to say that purple is your color. Purple is very, very much your color." I accept her hand but only squeeze it gently, using my own strength and momentum to pull myself up, and then I pull Jordan up as well, and we're standing so close together that I can feel her perfume permeate my clothes. I want to tangle my fingers in the roots of her hair, I want to slip her jacket from her shoulders and rub warmth into them with my hands instead.

"Did you bring the eyeliner?" It's all I can possibly trust myself to say, and even still my voice is breathless and hopeful, so much so that I'd be surprised if I didn't just betray all my feelings for her in that one simple question.

She doesn't answer me in words, just works her hand free from mine in order to reach into the depths of her leather jacket and produce a long black cylinder of the requested cosmetic.

"Gear," I proclaim it, a slang word I haven't used since I was a teenager and I could smack myself for being so bloody inarticulate tonight. I'm tempted to ask Jordan if I can run up to her flat and take a very fast, very cold shower before we leave. "All right, love, you'll have to draw it on for me because I haven't got a mirror handy. Come on."

I take her opposite hand in mine and lead her to the bike, sitting sideways in the seat so that she can better reach me. As she uncaps the tube, I take notice of the expertly precise job she did on her own eyes, and how it makes her seem as exotic as Theda Bara and as beautifully trashy as Nancy Vicious. When she leans forward, so close our noses almost touch, and she places the delicate tips of her fingers on my face, gently holding my right eyelid closed, I think I'll surely die. I pray to keep my life as I watch her with only my left eye, relishing in the coolness of her fingers and the paintbrush as it slides over my burning skin. I can't even think of anything to say to pass the time, my tongue is completely pasted down inside my mouth. And I know I'm being ridiculous, I'm being a categorical jackass. If I know anything from studying Jordan all these years, it's that she's not attracted to men like me. She's attracted to... well, assholes, really, the sort of men that barge in and take control and demand the attention of the entire room with their conventional good looks and their authoritative charm, and they talk the talk and they walk the walk and they sucker her in, and I don't know how. I've never understood why Jordan goes in for that sort. Sometimes I think it's like a joke to her, or perhaps a defense mechanism. If she carries on with those kinds of men, there isn't much of a chance she'll grow attached and end up hurt.

But how I wish... I wish I didn't have to wish.

She's finished with the other eye and she doesn't laugh or anything, so I suppose I don't look too stupid. Sometimes I wonder if I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. I don't want to be one of those fifty-five year old lecherous rockstar types still prancing about in makeup and queer clothing, totally convinced they're still somebody after all these years. But then I suppose at least they have that to cling to, the fact that they were somebody once. I was never anybody. I'm a nobody.

"Cheer up, Nige." Jordan's hand is still on my face but now she's cupping my cheek in her palm, stroking it slowly back and forth with her thumb. My incorrigibly negative inner monologue must be written plainly on my features because she smiles a bit apologetically and muses, "You look like someone just ran over your dog."

"Nonsense, love," I reply, forcing a warm smile to spread my lips. I bring my own hand up to cover hers, and with a sudden rush of courage I turn my head and kiss the center of her palm. "Jordan's just fine. The old girl's right here." I release her hand, then, and smile a bit wider. "Sorry about that sidecar, love, you'll have to wait until my next paycheck. Ah! But I do have..." I turn away from her with sudden determination and take the extra helmet from where it was draped over the left handlebar. I turn it so the top of the bowl faces Jordan, and cleverly point out the custom-painted union jack on its surface.

She laughs, as desired, and how I do love that laugh. Jordan laughs as though no one were listening, a full, unabashed laugh from deep inside of her, a laugh that betrays just how much she loves life, even though she may not readily admit it. She accepts the helmet and puts it on, buckling it under her chin, and I take my own from the other handlebar and fit it over my head, swinging one leg over the side of the bike and settling myself down in the driver's seat again. Jordan hops on a moment later, though not without some visible difficulty - she isn't used to maneuvering a dress, it seems - and then there are her arms, long and thin and curled around my waist.

I want that ride to last forever, I don't want to stop driving until we're out of state, I want to really abduct her, steal her away for a while to keep her as my own. But to do such a thing would be crazy and impossible, and I could never do it anyway. I would never want to be with Jordan unless she wanted it as well, just like no one could ever force Jordan to do something unless she was a willing accomplice. It wouldn't be right otherwise, it wouldn't be real. I want it to be real with Jordan. There have been times over the years at office parties and such that we both had a few too many drinks and something could have happened if we let it. But that would have been artificial and convenient, and that's why I've never acted on my feelings for her. I've waited this long and I can wait for the rest of our lives if I have to. Some might call me a coward and I suppose that's true. But I think it's far better to be a coward with Jordan than to pressure her, because pressuring Jordan only makes her push you farther away. At least if she never loves me then I can still stay close at hand. At least we will always be best friends.

We make it to the club in about fifteen minutes, not too grimy of a spot, but not as pretentious and trendy as some of the other clubs that have sprung up in Boston as of late, like the one Alistair Dark frequents. No, this place I'd say is just right, and does a pretty authentic job of resurrecting the essential oldschool atmosphere. It's small and it's dark and the music isn't too loud, and sometimes the DJ does break out the expected dry ice smog machine, but there aren't garish crucifixes or bloody red devils on the walls. It's just a modest little goth club with good drinks and better music, boasting an artsy sort of decor and overstuffed velour couches that feel like home.

I realize as we enter that my hand has somehow gotten wrapped up in Jordan's again, and whether I took hers or she took mine I can't remember, but here we are holding hands, and here I am leading her across the floor to one of the couches. But the truly shocking thing is that she doesn't let go, and so even as we're sitting side by side our hands are still folded together between us. I want to stroke the back of hers with my thumb but I'm afraid that if I took that liberty she'd surely pull away, so my fingers remain numb, limp as a wad of clay in her grasp. A cocktail waitress with an emerald green pixie cut drops by to take our order and to my amusement Jordan asks for a bottle of the house red, perhaps expecting it to be served in Wiccan chalices or something. Dear girl, but wouldn't that be lovely? The two of us sitting here like a lady and her lord, sipping wine from brass goblets. She certainly looks the part tonight; Jordan in a dress, and the same color as the very couch we're perched upon. I've never seen her clothed this way before, I wonder what possessed her...?

"So," she announces, turning to look at me and breaking up the silence in that certain Jordan way that lets me know she's about to say something deliberately cliché. "Come here often?"

I chuckle for her benefit, but internally I'm fighting down the urge to take my hand from hers and wrap my arm around her instead. Certainly she wouldn't like that; she'd wiggle and squirm and fight it like an alley cat unused to human affection. "Indeed I do, actually," I reply over the music, which is a tune by the Cure that I fancy quite a lot. You, soft and only you, lost and lonely you, just like heaven... "It's my favourite spot. It isn't like the other clubs. They play actual music; real, good music. And even though they play it fairly loud, it's... still quiet in here, in a way. There are places to sit and no one bothers you. Sometimes I suppose I just like to come in here to disappear for a while."

She's quiet for a moment. "That sounds nice," she decides, a bit wistfully. "Disappearing. I guess that's what I'm doing tonight."

The waitress comes by with our drinks, just a regular old bottle of cheap house plonk, and two plain short-stemmed wine glasses. Jordan's eyes don't betray any surprise or disappointment, but I do catch just a flash of an embarrassed smile that disappears as quickly as she believes she has tonight.

"Nonsense," I denounce her opinion, gingerly bringing her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles briefly, just a peck. "We're doing it together, love. Just you and I and no one else can see us." She tilts her head slightly to look at me again, that same deep probing set to her eyes that frightened me a bit when we were standing in front of her brother's body. I wonder wildly if she caught some hidden meaning in my words, if she knows.

I clear my throat. "Let's have a drink, then," I suggest, breaking away from her hand finally to lean forward and lift our bottle of plonk from the marble coffee table. The cork has already been loosened by the barman so I simply pull it out, tilting the nozzle to the rim of each glass and filling them halfway with the dark red liquid. I hand one to her and hold mine up to indicate a toast. "To..."

"To disappearing," Jordan finishes, and taps her glass against mine. They make a little clinking sound as they come together, and then we each tilt our glasses to our lips to drain them. The wine is a bit harsh against my tongue, but it's a young red, thankfully, so it isn't dry or unpleasant. It burns at the pit of my stomach but that feeling soon gives way to serenity, the alcohol taking the edge off my nerves. I sink back against the couch and stretch my legs out, crossing one ankle over the other. And then with a wallop of boldness, I take up Jordan's hand again.

We sit quietly for a while, just listening to the music that the DJ spins, every so often one of us closing our eyes to meditate. To disappear, I suppose. We spend that first half hour disappearing. And then once we're sure we're safely tucked away, Jordan leans forward to pour us another drink and we get to talking again. We speak of our youth, of the Eighties and the music we once danced to, the drugs we tried, the clothes we wore. I tell her what English clubs were like and she tells me what American clubs were like, and we discover there weren't very many differences at all. Jordan tells me all the colors of her hair, and I picture them one by one, a little rainbow of Jordan, her memories reflecting all the many colors trapped inside of her still, having faded into grayscale by years of med school and hard work, torture and suffering and loneliness. And I long to comfort her, to tell her that I know her pain, that all my colors too have been muted by emptiness. It almost makes me giddy, in a way, knowing that she feels the same sadness that I do sometimes, the same hopeless desperation and the feeling that there's something more out there that I just can't seem to get my hands on. The feeling that there's something I've lost over the years, and the horrifying realization that I don't even remember what it is that I'm missing anymore.

We talk for an hour more, at least, gradually emptying the bottle. By midnight it's completely dry, and yet I don't feel the least bit drunk, not on anything but Jordan. I'm filled with fascination for her past and mine, and the way we're linked together by common experience, and in my rapt interest I discover I've drawn closer to her on the couch, that we sit on the same cushion now because there is another couple next to us. The place has filled up a bit and has gotten noisier, and most importantly of all, my arm is around Jordan's shoulders, my thumb stroking the little indentation of her elbow, her body turned halfway against my chest.

"Good evening and good morrow, my fellow brethren of the night." The deep, soothing voice of the DJ cuts into our conversation, causing us both to look up because he hasn't stopped spinning to speak all night. The dance floor is scattered with couples and groups of friends taking a breather between songs. "The time is 12:01 AM and at this point I'd like to invite you all onto the floor for our usual midnight waltz. Tonight the accompaniment will be a little tune known as Sally's Song, from the modest Tim Burton masterpiece A Nightmare Before Christmas, as interpreted by the legendary indie goth band London After Midnight. Blessed be."

The couples on the floor ready themselves, the more dominant of the two holding out upturned palms for the other to take as regally as attendants of a Renaissance ball. The request burns my lips but I'm not nearly drunk enough to ask; I couldn't even stutter it out if I tried. Jordan shifts beside me and uses the arm of the sofa to pull herself up to a stand. I assume at first that she's just off to use the loo, but then her slender body swivels round and she outstretches one long forearm, her palm upturned, a smile dancing on her features as blithely as the lights and the smog from the dry ice machine dance behind her, encapsulating her in shadow and silhouette.

"Come on, Nige," she prompts me, her voice seeming something like a whisper in a dream, her touch a puff of smoke barely tangible but undeniably real as I accept her hand and our fingers intertwine. "Before the song starts. Come on."

I pull myself up, completely in awe of her. Jordan Cavanaugh has asked me to dance and I am struck with the sensation of being but a grammar student again at a spring cotillion, pulled out of my wallflower state by the most beautiful girl in school. We stand face to face on the floor and her free hand goes to my shoulder, switching the lead into my possession. I place my unoccupied hand on the drawn waist of her dress, taken aback by the surprising softness of it.

"I've never waltzed before," she confesses, her voice having that same dreamy quality to it. The smog rises thickly up around our figures and the song begins, and I think that I will remember the lyrics intimately by heart for the rest of my life.

I sense there's something in the wind

That feels like tragedy's at hand

And though I'd like to stand by you

Can't shake this feeling that I have.

The worst is just around the bend.

And does she notice

My feelings for her?

And can't she see

How much she means to me?

I think it's not to be.

What will become of my dear friend?

Where will her actions lead us then?

Although I'd like to join the crowd

In their enthusiastic cloud

Try as I may it doesn't last.

And will we ever

End up together?

No, I think not.

It's never to become

For I am not the one.

We waltz not only as though we've never waltzed before, but as though we'll never waltz again for the remainder of our lives. The dance itself starts off as chaste, our bodies held at arms-length, our steps timed and choreographed with the precision that only two amateurs can truly pull off. I don't turn her or twirl her or pull her in close, our scuffed Doc Martens never deviating from the classic form of the dance. But our gazes are tightly focused on one another, and I realize somewhere in the midst of that minute and fifty two seconds that Jordan and I have the exact same color eyes, a cryptic hazel that is brown on some days and green on others, and gold in the light.

The song and the waltz invariably end, and somewhere in the realm of reality I can hear the DJ thanking everyone for dancing, that the midnight waltz is a staple of the club and it is performed every night. I feel the floor clear out slightly, only certain couples staying on for another dance. I hear the song change to another Cure number, a quicker one, a louder one. I am aware of all of this and yet I pay no attention to any of it because Jordan and I are pressed close together now, my brow falling down to rest against hers as though a product of sheer gravitational force. Somewhere I am aware of the heavy vicious thumping of my own heart and the quickened pace of my breathing and both of Jordan's hands on my neck, the contrast of her arctic fingers against my blistering skin.

"Love," I whisper, the word reverberating softly in my brain. There are things I feel I need to tell her, right now, post-haste and without delay. Important things she needs to know, things I've kept bottled up for longer than I can remember. Long and detailed speeches I swore I'd recite for her if this day ever dawned. But for now, right now, the only word I can find on my lips is the simplest summary for everything that's trapped inside my own heart. "Love."

"Nige," I hear her say, feel her breath against my lips. "Nigel, God, what's wrong with me..." I don't understand what she means. I don't have time to find out. The wine, it seems, has gotten to us both after all. I succumb willingly to the sudden, urgent pull of her hands and then our lips have crashed together, softly at first and then desperate and hungry. My mind escapes me, running around in hysterically exuberant circles, as naturally blissful as a child on his birthday. I feel her mouth open and her tongue seek out mine, then it slides against the inside of my cheek, causing every hair on the back of my neck to stand straight up at attention and a surge of desire to run through me like nothing I've ever experienced before.

The earthshattering realization hits me like a blow to the back of the head. I am standing here on this crowded dance floor and I am kissing Jordan Cavanaugh to Friday I'm In Love, and wonder of all wonders, she is actually kissing me back, full-force, and holding me to her with both hands. This is it for me; I'm lost, I've been vaporized, I'm completely and totally hers. Even if she were to pull away right now and decide she no longer wanted me, some small part of me would always remain in her possession until the day I took my last breath.

I don't want to push her, or crush her, or scare her away from me. It's very important that I handle this situation with the utmost tenderness and care. I realize that my arms have been slack at my sides for quite some time, and so now I bring them up to the subtle curve of her hips, accentuated by the bodice of her dress. She's so skinny, my little beanpole Jordan, just like me. I could probably encircle her entire waist in both hands if I wanted, touching thumb to thumb and middle finger to middle finger. So delicate and fragile, and yet incredibly not so; the strongest, most capable woman I've ever known. She could thrash me within an inch of my life if I let her, she could make me wish I'd never been born. There have been times throughout the years when I've been tempted to drive her to do just that, because it would have at least proved that she knew I existed. All of those years of torturous anticipation are forgotten now, tossed into the fireplace, completely annihilated with a simple flick of my wrist. I bring both hands to either side of her face, cupping her flushed cheeks, long spidery fingers spread out over each of her little ears as she kisses me, kisses me still. I don't trust my knees to hold me anymore, any moment now they will weaken and buckle and turn to tomato soup and I will be not but a puddle on the floor.

I could kiss her forever but she does pull away, eventually she does, and stares up at me in a bewildered mixture of fear and surprise and amusement and... and lust, yes, I do see lust, and it nearly prompts me to hoist her up over my shoulder and carry her out to the bike. Of course I don't, because lanky and hulking as I am, I don't feel like much more than a field mouse right now, trapped in the dual hazel spotlights of Jordan's eyes.

"Jordan... love, I... I..." I feel like I'm obligated to speak and yet nothing seems profound enough to say. "I should say something. I mean... what I mean is I should tell you something. There's something I very much need to say to you..."

"No," she firmly interrupts, and I catch a hint of pleading in her voice. "Look, just... don't say it right now, okay? We should be somewhere else. This is fast. This is just really fast, Nigel. We need to cool off. We need to go somewhere else. I need fresh air. We both really need fresh air right now. We need to go outside." Her features are taking on a panicked expression, as though she'll laugh or cry or scream at any given moment. My stomach becomes queasy with dread and all I want is to wrap her up in my arms and beg her not to freak out on me, that I'll be good to her, I'll be so good to her and I'll love her... that I already love her...

But I can't. I can't. I'm terrified. I'm emasculated. While we were embracing, time seemed to stand still, and now that we're apart again it's racing to catch up with the clock. I nod hysterically, turning to take our jackets from the couch and then lumbering over to our waitress. I find a couple of twenties in my back pocket and nearly shove them at her, not caring if it's too much or even not enough.

Fresh air is what Jordan wanted and it hits me like a slap in the face along with fat, heavy sheets of pouring rain as they fall down to Earth. I'm too distressed to even remember to hold the door open for her, I hear her palms slap up against the wood to keep it from knocking her backwards, and then she's calling my name.

"Nigel... Nigel!" I keep walking at a steady pace to the end of the block where my bike is parked. She wanted fresh air and now she has it, she wanted to cool off and Mother Nature has decided to give us our very own cold shower. What more does she want from me? "Nigel!!"

I spin around as abruptly as I had started my flight from her, intending to shout, to scream, to hurl curses at her and damn her for fucking with my head for so many years even though she didn't know it, for finally kissing me and then asking for air as though I had sucked it all out of her with cruel brutal force. But when I open my mouth to do this, the only phrase that surfaces is a savage, animalistic, "Christ on a bleeding moped, I love you, Jordan!"

It sounds ridiculous even to my own ears, but it springs to life so loudly that it competes with the sudden uproarious thunder and lightning illuminating the sky. The rain pours down harder, soaking through my hair, Jordan's hair, the purple dress. The combined force of the elements and my sordid confession seems to send her reeling back a noticeable step, and then another. She does laugh then, just once, as out of place and emotional as it had been at her brother's funeral when I explained why I was late. Her thin brows are arched upward, afraid and incredulous, and her cheeks are a deep scarlet. I've never seen Jordan blush before. Her eyes are as wide as the eyes of the proverbial deer in the headlights.

"What did you say?" she exclaims, even though every syllable screams the exact opposite at me - I know exactly what you said, Nigel Townsend, I know exactly what you just said.

"Fuck!" I add wildly, realizing with a powerful shock that the cat is out of the bag now and there is no turning back, no way of righting this and returning to normal, no way of laughing it off as though it were some big joke. My voice is exhausted when I reply. "I don't know, love. I don't know what I've said."

"Yes, you do," she insists, replacing the two steps she undid not thirty seconds ago, and adding more to them besides. She's not quite close enough to touch me yet. I shrink backwards, though I don't know why. In some bizarre twist of fate, it's gone from me pursuing Jordan to Jordan pursuing me, at least in the physical sense. "Just say it, Nige. Just tell me." Her voice is coaxing and even-tempered and actually a bit annoying, because this situation is anything but even and anything but fair. "Tell me what you said."

She takes another step forward and I take another step back. "I don't see why I should when I've already said it," I reply, almost bitterly. "I've said it already, Jordan. You don't listen to me. You never, ever listen to me, love. If you'd ever listened once, just once in the decade you've known me, then you'd already know what I've said. You'd have known it for a very long time, far before the words ever passed my lips."

"You love me." I hate the way she says it, through a mocking smile and with an amused tone, accusing me of it as though it were an embarrassing habit like wetting the bed. "You love me, Nigel, that's what you said."

"Yes!" I cry, exasperated, retracing my steps just as she had done so that we both meet in the middle. "That's what I said, Jordan, I'm in love with you. Are you quite happy? No, wait, you can't possibly be, because loving you is a horrible curse, isn't it? The instant a man falls for you, you've written him off your dance card for life, haven't you? So go on, then, love. Tell me I'm a fool. Tell me you don't love me, that you couldn't ever fathom loving me. Tell me the words I've been waiting to hear from the very first moment I met you. Quickly, love. Get it over with so that I can go back to my computers and my trivia and my odd duck roommate with the two cats. Tell me you don't love me so that I can resign myself to being Nigel Townsend for the rest of my life, a queer sort of fellow always good for a few laughs but never good enough to get the girl."

I can't go on. I shut my mouth and hold my breath and wait for her reply as the rainwater streams down my cheeks like teardrops.

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To Be Continued... How's that for a cliffhanger? :)