It’s in the rain.

It’s in his hand.

It’s in her eyes.

It’s in their hearts.

It’s in a box.

It’s on their lips.

It’s at a gas station.

It’s impossible to tell the rain from the tears, impossible to quell either one. He kneels near a pump in a pool of gasoline and melts the world for the both of them.

And then they’re kissing in the rain – fierce, hot, beautiful – as the tears come and the rain keeps on and her fingers lace through his own.

She laughs against his lips because
this just happened.

It’s unreal. But it feels perfectly right. There’s a slip of cool silver onto her finger. He’s never looked happier, smile breaking his face.

It’s in his smile.

It’s in her touch.

It’s in jello, doves, paperclips.

It’s in answering phones and art school and 2 AM phones calls when the bedside is achingly empty.

It’s in the way the rain falls, at this gas station, on this day. And it’s in every breath he breathes when he says I love you.

In the end, it doesn’t have to be perfect timing.
It’s at a gas station.

All that it could ever really be is
yes.

It’s finally out of his pocket.