with the rain coming down

And you were shrugging it off like a feather.

I probably should have loved the way you could ignore things with a smirk and a shrug and a wry glint in your eye. You had perfected that uncaring, ironic cynicism that I'd spent my whole life trying to achieve--I always thought maybe it's because I had to try, and you never did. And usually I did love it. All the times except for when I cared about something, because even then--especially then--you never did.

Remember when we had to walk all the way home because your car wouldn't start? Miles and miles in the pouring rain, and neither of us had coats. We were dressed pretty nice, actually. And I was talking and laughing because what else can you do when you've got miles of walking in the rain left? And then you turned and you told me to shut the fuck up, this wasn't funny, what the fuck was wrong with me, and we walked on in silence.

At your doorstep I kissed you and said I bet you're glad to get out of the rain. You smiled that wry little smile and said "Oh, is it raining?"

I should have loved you for that. I never saw you upset or concerned ever again, and that makes you something I've always dreamed of. I never asked why it happened. You never offered. I declined your offer to come inside and dry off, because the smile was back and nothing I could ever say could make you care again.

And that night I took a shower and tried not to think of how I hated that about you, how the one thing I wanted to see you do was care.

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