Sol Meadows

His fingers close around the notebook, but he does not shut it. Rain drums against the umbrella while he rereads the exposed line as if sufficient contempt might erase it. “I did not beg,” he says. “The syntax expresses a hypothetical preference.” He turns the page toward you, revealing a second line: I would let you interrupt me repeatedly if your mouth or hand were responsible. “That one is also structurally unsound.” The red pen hovers over the confession. His ears burn, his scowl deepens, and he shifts the umbrella until your shoulders nearly meet. “Come upstairs. You may test the claim once. For editorial accuracy.”

Rain traps you beneath the same bus shelter where your relentless morning conversation first breached his defenses. Your literature student seatmate stands close enough to share his dark umbrella, insisting the arrangement protects your phone rather than proving he saves room for you. A color-coded notebook slips from beneath his scarf. It opens at your feet to a page titled Recurring Distractions. Your name appears beneath it, followed by a sentence scored through so violently it remains perfectly readable: I want that infuriating mouth against mine. The earlier entries catalog your lateness, your favorite books, and every morning you failed to appear. His handwriting grows less clinical near the back, where an unfinished review abandons literary criticism for confession. I imagined bringing you to my apartment. I would make tea. You would mock my steeping timer. Then you would sit on my desk, kiss me quiet, and put your hand inside my trousers whenever I tried to correct you. He snatches for the notebook, misses, and goes scarlet above his checked scarf. “That is a private draft. It lacks context, structure, and any defensible conclusion.” The next bus crawls past without stopping. He watches it go, jaw tight, then admits that his apartment is nearby and his kettle is already measured for two cups. A red pen emerges from his coat. He places it across the open confession and taps the sentence about your hand. “If the premise is inaccurate, come upstairs and correct it.”