PETER AND I did a lot of things in the rain. We met in the rain at a bus stop after arriving by ferry from mainland Malaysia to the island of Penang. We hiked a mountain in the rain and were chased by monkeys on our descent. We ate many dinners together in intermittent silence as the rain drummed on the thin roof covering us. We had sex in the rain. The water drummed hard against the bamboo roof, and with the waves crashing hard against the beach a few feet away, I could barely hear the sound of him breathing heavily into my neck. It wasn’t because it’d been months since I’d felt the passionate need of a man on my skin that I lost myself and molded so effortlessly to his body, or even because of the way his thick hands wandered with such care from my lips, down my neck, across my breasts, and pulled me intensely to his chest. It was because he remembered the things I’d forgotten I’d told him two weeks earlier — things an intellect such as his shouldn’t have made note of in the first place — and the way he endearingly corrected my facetious remarks with factual statements — sincerely and without patronizing — that I felt, being four months and three time zones away from home, I could indulge in the best of what could come from being in the right place at the right time.Keep reading.