It was raining. Raining so hard in Los Angeles, it was one of those “dark and stormy nights” that start off the best stories. It was a great night to fall in love and kiss out in the rain while dancing.

Kirsten lived in the motel by the diner, ate with plastic utencils, never watched movies, washed her hair with travel sized shampoos and didn’t cook. She could, however, fall in love on a night like that. She eagerly awaited his return as she gazed upon the window, taking in the “scenery” of cars speeding by and raindrops slowly dancing on the glass, one drop tracing down, running into a series of lonely drops, combining to make one long wave of cascading water.

The rest was a blur. He knocked, she answered. Their bodies crashed together, their lips crushed together. Hands gingerly ran down their bodies. Together they became one, as the raindrops on the window.

Yet when it was over, Kirsten wondered if she could still be in love with him on a sunny day.