It was raining. I remember hearing it pounding against the roof of your shitty co-op apartment when your head was buried between my legs. I was distracted; I wanted to surrender to the gentle lapping of your tongue, but instead I kept hearing the rain hammering on the rooftop and it pulled me back to our last “defining the relationship” conversation. It was raining then, too.

We were sitting in that coffee shop — you know the one, it has free wi-fi and there’s always a bunch of drugged out college students checking their email on their laptops — and you told me you weren’t in love with me. I remember the rain, like a buzzing in my head. It almost (almost, but not quite) drowned out what you said. I remember nodding, dumbly. You took that as acquiescence. It wasn’t.

I grabbed you by the short hairs on the back of your head and pulled you up to kiss me. I could taste myself on your lips. I buried myself in your kiss and tried to let your lips move me like they used to. I kissed you, knowing it was over.