It Should’ve Rained That Night

Pour some cheap Ragu into a non-microwave-safe bowl, then microwave it. That’s how Wesley felt as he sat across from a rose wrapped in loud plastic that he hoped would be crumpled by other, softer hands. The can of fat tire melting along his fingertips wasn’t part of the plan. He was surrounded by people talking to people, yet the empty chair across from him looked natural in this sea of communication. Wait a little longer. She’ll…