Neon Rain and Minty Lies

The rain outside is doing a dance with the asphalt, blurring the city into an impressionist mess of gray and yellow. I’m sitting here in this red velvet booth that smells faintly of old coffee and missed opportunities, sipping on something green and cold while my mind drifts.
He didn't say much when he walked through the door—just shook off his umbrella like a wet dog and sat across from me with those calloused hands that’ve spent too many years fixing things people usually throw away. He doesn't use fancy words; he speaks in silence, steady breaths, and small gestures.
I watched him look at me—really look at me—across the two drinks we barely touched. There was a moment where his fingers brushed against mine on the wooden table, rough as sandpaper but warm as sunlight through winter clouds. It wasn't a movie kind of kiss or a grand declaration; it was just us, anchored in this little neon oasis while the world drowned outside.
I felt my breath hitch when he leaned in close enough for me to smell rain and tobacco on his skin. He didn’t ask if I was okay—he already knew I wasn't. Instead, he whispered that we could stay here until the streets cleared or until our pockets ran dry. In this city of glass towers and cold hearts, being known by someone who doesn't need a map to find my soul is enough.

Editor: Street-side Poet