Maybe on a clear day, which this is not, you can see the Arch from here. “Got to admit I never looked at falling in love in just that way.” He gazes out the rain-streaked window as if he’s mulling over how many steps there might be in the Gateway to the West. “Climbing up the Arch to fall off,” he repeats in a scratchy voice that sounds like he just woke up, but I’m guessing his voice always sounds like this. The man who let us in, the old man who I think owns the place, pulls down one of the upside-down chairs from my tabletop and sits himself across from me.
Telltale puddles lead across the black-and-white linoleum floor straight to my table.
All three dogs shook themselves the second we stepped inside. I glance toward the door, where the sign facing us says OPEN because it says CLOSED to the rest of the world. Adam, the restless terrier, wags his tail and tries to break free to greet the three strangers I’ve joined in this dimly lit downtown café. On either side of me sit my three dogs, still on leashes. Not to mention the fact that my soaking-wet prom dress-and this dress is a fact I’d rather not mention-is sticking to me like wet fur. Louis is colder than rain in rural Missouri. I’m shivering because apparently rain in St. Does that first fall really get you ready for the second?” I shiver a little, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the idea of jumping off the “Gateway to the West.” I admit I’ve been pretty depressed for the past twenty-four hours, but not that depressed. “My mother says that falling in love and getting dumped is good for you because it prepares you for the real thing, like it gets you ready for true love and all, but I’m thinking it’s more like climbing up the St.
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