Rain Delay

Wendy Atterberry

Cinco de Mayo, 2006:
Not a baseball game, dinner.  Sushi, to be exact.
And I am sitting with a man in Soho who speaks with his hands
and eyebrows.
He drops his chopsticks a lot,
they punctuate his nerves.
It's a Friday and I'm wearing a skirt and heels.

On Sunday we sit in Washington Square Park and laugh.
"There's a fly on my shoe," says an old man
to his lady friend,
"Look at that," he says in a thick New York old man Jewish accent,
"I have a friend."
He sings Sinatra songs to her,
and she clasps her hand around his arm and smiles.

It's three months before I watch a game with the Yankee fan.
He's come to Chicago to see Tom Waits,
and me.
"The Yankees are playing the Sox tomorrow night," he says.
And I nod.  I have other plans.
"The Yankees are playing the Sox tonight," he says the next morning, and I
sigh.
"We don't even have tickets," I tell him.
"The Yankees are playing the Sox in one hour," he says later that day.
"Fine," I reply,  "you have to buy me a hotdog."

Outside the stadium someone sells us $27 tickets for $30 apiece
and we think that's pretty good.
The game is rain delayed for two hours and
inside the stadium we cover our heads
with White Sox hand towels,
and sip syrupy Margaritas.
It's $1 hotdog night and we eat 5.

It's a Thursday and I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
He still speaks with his hands
and eyebrows,
but time and Margaritas have calmed his nerves.
We have two more days
before he flies back to New York.
And three weeks before I go to him.

"Tomorrow we do whatever you want," he says
when the Yankees lose at midnight,
6 hours after we've left home.
We walk to the redline through drizzle.
I clasp my hand around his arm and smile.
"Thanks for the hotdogs," I reply, wiping rain
from his brows
with a White Sox hand towel.
"You're welcome," he says as we run for the train
and head home.