It’s been a tough night.
He bombed his set. He got roughed up by one of the audience members who hated said bombed set. He found his dealer. He scored. He threw it out. He went back and dug it out of the garbage. It stared raining. He threw it out again.
And now he’s sitting in the pouring rain on the stoop of a closed little café in the Village, drenched in rainwater, watching lightning crash in the sky, way off in the distance.
He remembers sitting out in the rain on that farm, so many years ago. Before the war. Before Honey. Before giving into his terrible, terrible urges. All of his urges. To be heard. To be high.
Lenny wonders where that man is now.
Thunder rumbles from far away, and he rubs the rain out of his face. He should go home. Get up, start moving. He’s cold. It’s nearly Christmas and it’s freezing but he just sits and squeezes his eyes shut.
And then, suddenly the rain stops.
And when he looks up, he finds the underside of a swirly red and black umbrella.
“It’s too cold, Lenny.”
Midge’s face comes into view and his shoulders slump.
Of course.
Of course.
“Can’t a man brood in peace?” he asks with a sad chuckle.
“Not when it’s twenty degrees out and he doesn’t own anything heavier than a trench coat,” Midge tells him.
“It’s been a very bad night,” he tells her. “To be honest, pneumonia sounds a little like an improvement.”
“It’s can’t be all bad,” she says gently. “Or are you that unhappy to see me?”
“I’m never unhappy to see you,” he confesses. “You’re actually the best thing that’s happened all fucking week.”
Midge smiles at him. It’s a sweet smile that reaches her eyes. Clearly relieved that her getting back on stage in the last month has paid off in regards to his attitude toward her.
“Then you won’t mind coming with me to the Gaslight for some coffee and a little warmth,” Midge says, holding a gloved hand out to him.
Lenny sighs and regards her hand thoughtfully. He doesn’t like it when she wears gloves. It impedes his memory of the way her hands felt against his skin in their very blue hotel room (his technically, but theirs really), and he’s just not a fan.
But he takes her hand anyways, getting to his feet and letting her keep a hold of it as she does her best with her short stature to raise her umbrella over both their heads. He takes it from her as they start walking, holding it easily over both of them, pulling her a little closer.
