fiction stem

i was having stupid romantic thoughts of taking her to old jazzy places where we'd order oysters and creme brulee just because of the way they sounded but then get up to dance before they even arrived leaving our glasses full of wine and empty of cares, hers stained with the rouge from her lips and mine smudged on the base with a thumbprint i'd made over and over while we were talking about the rain outside that still fell like a snare drum but not like the cascade we'd been caught in fleeing the theatre without an umbrella nor a taxi in sight, with eyes darting from dark street corner to corner searching from among the one, two, three lit facades in view, polling each other where we should go until we decided on this place that was illuminated at street level by just four neon letters, or actually three since the "a" was burnt out which left just a "j" and two "z"s which we were still laughing about when we walked in the half-submerged door like we owned the place.