valentines day at a bus station

random prompt: valentines day at a bus station

rain falls down, unforgiving against the pavement.
two pairs of shoes; worn to the soles, muddied from cutting through yards to reach the road. slapping through the thin puddles.
and yet they’re too late.
the bus pulls away right as they hit the sidewalk, panting and soaked to the bone. clothes cling to skin, hair sticks to the nape of necks. water slides over freckles and dimples. 
espresso hands curl into fists, punching at the rain. an exasperated sigh causes water to drip onto the lip of a pale girl.
“we missed it.” scratchy and grating, the pale girl’s voice fills the non-existing silence.
raven-haired, lanky, and burnt-almond brown, the boy beside her curls his lip. “what do we do now?”
the red head heaves a great sigh and moves towards the small glass structure. it reeks of cigarettes and cheap perfume, but it’s bissidly dry. 
she pats the spot beside her, but the toffee boy juts out a lip, crossing his arms. “i don’t want to.”
freckles crinkle as the girl gives a wry smile. “but it’s dry, sweetheart.”
“don’t sweetheart me.”
the girl giggles. “it’s valentines day. i’m permitted to call you whatever i want.”
the loud scoff echos slightly. “valentines day isn’t special. if it was, we would’ve made that bus.” ebony hair is slicked back as he runs a hand through his hair.
the girl seems to finally lose patience. she stands and gives a sharp tug to the boys arm, and he’s heaved inside. 
he seems to realize his defeat, because he collapses onto the clear-plastic bench. he flicks away the wrapper of a cliff bar before relaxing against the glass wall. the girl sits beside him, tucking her dampened, pin-straight red hair behind her ears.
they sit in the near-silence as rain beats down. no lighting strikes, no thunder is heard. just the steady rhythm of the rain.
something seems to hit the red-head. “why is it raining? it’s february.”
the boy beside her laughs, peeling off his red flannel. the t-shirt underneath is wet, but not quite as soaked. “it’s vermont, sweetheart. get used to it.”
“don’t sweetheart me.”
laughter fills the three-walled room. hands slide together on the dirtied bench, water dripping from interlocked and painted fingers. rings clink.
the girl rests her head on the raveonettes shoulder. a car speeds by, lighting up their faces for a few moments. freckles shine. his dimples are visible, complimenting the boy's smile.
the toffee hand pulls away, earning a confused noise from the pale girl. the boy simply laughs, looping his left arm around the girl’s shoulders. she curls closer.
another car drives by.
water sits in their shoes, dripping onto the half-dry pavement beneath them. the cracks in the sidewalk have small clovers peeking up. a four-leaf is curled beneath the rest, trodden on by many sneakers in its short lifetime.
the girl notices it, though, and leans down to pluck in from the ground. it leans to one side, defeated and broken. a luck charm that has been ignored.
the girl reaches into her back pocked and pulls out a small leather-bound. it’s worn pages are held together by a dirtied red ribbon.
the pages are filled with assorted items, flowers and scraps of paper. pressed between the pages, flattened and kept down by small, colored pieces of tape.
the red head slides the four-leaf in between two pages and takes a small roll of green tape from her pocket. the clover is secured on the page, and the book returns to her pocket.
“the clover didn’t give us much luck, did it?” the boy mumbles as she curls closer to him. “we missed the bus.”
the girl gives a small, happy sigh, twisting a ring on the boys burnt caramel fingers. it slides, slick from rain and lose on his long, slender fingers. “i don’t know. this is nice, isn’t it?”
“it is.” 
rain drums down, and an old prius causes water to slosh onto the sidewalk.
they sit like this, tangled and curled up as the steady fall of the rain creates a rhythm. a slow rhythm, not silent but not quite a sound either. steady.
eventually, the screech of the bus pulling in startles them out of their haze. the girl stands first, stretching as the bus doors give a whoosh. “come on, sweetheart.”
“don’t sweetheart me,” the boy responds, although with no bite. 
they climb onto the bus, hand in hand. it’s musty but dry, the stank of gasoline obvious and strong. the driver holds out a chubby hand, and the boy slaps a five dollar bill down. 
they sit down in the back, laughing slightly as water drips onto the torn seats. the bus revs up, and the smell gas intensifies. they pull off of the curb, into the rain.