Tom Drake ran his index finger around the cold silver edge of his Dolce & Gabanna glasses. Just where the ear pieces met the bridge, they flared, expanding to provide the metal canvas upon which ‘D&G’ now glinted from its grooved outlines. Tom believed that glasses occupied a unique position in the world of fashion. A sexy pair of frames provided that extra edge to the wardrobe which could even compensate in situations where Tom felt otherwise under-dressed. Despite the caliber of the establishment from which Tom had purchased these particular glasses, he had detected a flaw on the left lens, directly in the center where he needed to look in order to see properly.
Of course, Tom wore them anyway.
He stood in the pantry of his office, blinking his eyes to relieve them from the strain which had come throughout the day. The glasses lie on the counter by the sink. Distracted as he was, Tom did not hear Ginger enter the room behind him.
“Did I interrupt a ritual?” Ginger said.
Startled, Tom turned to her. She held his glasses dangling from her fingers, grinning. Tom couldn’t believe she was not greeting him with ridicule. What Tom did not know was that Ginger’s interest in him had been solidified long before, a result of her observations and interactions with him in moments when he was not trying, not pretending, not performing — not doing anything except reacting in the biological ways that made him Tom Drake, mind moving freely, churning of hope and promise.
Although Tom remained in the dark of this wonderful occurrence, he still managed to recover from his shock.
“What are you doing after work?” Tom asked.
“Running.”
“Running,” Tom repeated. “You’re a runner?”
Then Tom saw himself with Stacy again, that night at his alma mater, when their bodies battled each other for the title of pleasure-giver. The intensity and respect –which had come to them so easily through words–also fueled their fucking. Tom did not feel the need to call it anything else. He did not care for the word love, believing it to be more of a feeling which arrived and invaded the consciousness, tormenting it, carving it up to leave a big yawning cavern.
Empty.
Empty until the passions of sex and speech and understanding filled it again, allowing life to resume.
“I might hit the lake trail myself,” Tom said.
“You’re a runner?”
“Hardly. More like a wannabe. But I bike.”
Predictably, Ginger rolled her eyes. Tom had never encountered self-pronounced runners who would not hesitate to criticize the cyclist who whizzed by them while they were wheezing. The resentment did not run equally strong in each direction, but he had some friends who thought all runners were masochists.
“Which way do you go?” Ginger asked. She lived south of Tom, closer to the Loop.
“North,” Tom said. “You?”
“South.”
“Guess I won’t be seeing you.”
“Unless you catch me,” she smiled.
“There’s always hope.”
Then she was gone. Tom noticed the perfections of her body as she left, but his attraction spanned much greater depth. For her part, she viewed her body with both happiness and disdain. What could so easily lure the eyes and minds of boys and men also led those fools to ignore the rest of her, not thinking to engage her in the powerful ways of language, indifferent to the stories and secrets she might share. Thus when Tom Drake — far from fool– spoke to her, he could not be stopped. She admired him for the ease with which he discussed the world and the problems within it: his knowledge and presentation being so specific and so studied and yet so easily eclipsing the hollow attempts she had received from other men. And, he was hilarious.
———–
The sky had begun to cloud by the time Tom approached the trail. He pedaled nearer, then veered south as a pack of parents pushing strollers blocked the northern path. The sky rumbled as he cycled south, noting the scenery which he had not seen since his first days on this Chicago trail. Tom had not forgotten about Ginger but — moody as he was — he’d told himself anything he wanted with her remained far, far away.
From the first drops of rain, Tom knew a deluge lie before him. Heavy drops fell faster and faster as Tom leaned forward and pedaled faster, scanning the blurry horizon for shelter. The rain drenched Tom in seconds and increasingly the wind chilled him. Finally he observed the dim overhang of some sort of shelter, and soon enough pulled from the path and dismounted his bike. Then he stood under the overhang with his bike, watching sheets of rain fling themselves at the earth. Some bounced and ricocheted and splashed Tom, forcing him to retreat. That’s when he saw her.
Bounding north, legs cycling faster and faster, Ginger was unmistakable. She wore the shortest of black running shorts and a thin white tank top. As if to taunt the rain, she raised her face to the sky and defied it, never breaking stride. Something about this sight reminded Tom of the stuff of visions and fantasies. He stood frozen, transfixed. Then his mind instantly washed itself with the cool confidence which arrives when choices suddenly became. To ignore that would have been to betray himself.
He dropped the bike and ran towards her. She saw him as he left the cover of the overhang and the rain began pelting him. Soaked through in seconds, he continued. She slowed then trotted backwards, panting and watching him. Then she stopped. As he neared, his chest rose and fell from his anticipation of her. The distance between them narrowed. Tom began to think uncountable, uncontrollable thoughts all at once, thoughts that tangled with each other, threatening again to confuse him or cause him to hesitate.
His right hand caught her behind the waist and pulled her to him as he stepped forward. In a single split moment, only observable through the eye of omnipotence, Ginger tossed both of her arms around Tom’s neck as his free hand’s fingers slipped over her cheek, clearing it of a few wet hairs which had escaped her ponytail.
Finally, they kissed.
Shivering in unison as the wind blew icy water into them, Ginger’s hand gripped Tom at the back of the neck, arching her back and pressing herself against him. A moan escaped her as she caught Tom’s bottom lip between her own and bit it gently. The rain had soaked her shirt and her breasts hardened and then warmed as she pressed them against Tom’s chest. He held her by the waist and the back as her hands trailed down his face, slipping from the rain.
As the cars zipped past, Tom and Ginger tasted each other again and again, finding the flavors both perfect and insufficient in small doses. The thought of stopping did not occur to them, nor any thought, for they had finally stopped thinking. The rain ridiculed them for it, attempting to break them like an evil force somehow unsatisfied with the magic of the event. But theirs was the passion of blockbuster films and sonnets and pornography all rolled into one, lacking nothing but gaining everything as its spark caught kindling and flared. The rain tried to stop them, but it would not be the first force they had overcome.
They ignored it like a sprinkle.
