It rained for three months. Irma, wrapped in a wool blanket, sat by the window and watched. She held a mug of tea heated with gin, a bright shot to chase the clouds. As the days passed, she added more blankets, more gin. Miles brought his old records and they listened to them in the damp kitchen. He didn’t ask for anything, just offered her the long, spare music.
One night at the end of the summer, Irma let the blanket slip from her shoulders. Miles took her wet face in his hands, just as the rain hung up.