Fishing in Beirut

Karen was happy on Sunday. A smoke-smell remained on the living room furniture, but Friday night’s party could be deemed a success. There was rain falling.
She’d spoken at length with a man called Michel, and agreed to give him her number. He’d told of his upbringing in Bordeaux, his hopes, his fears, and she’d been drawn in by this openness, which was not like guys back home. Neither was his evident interest in her. Perhaps because of this, or just the buzz of a gathering, she felt so light today, remembering the feel of that night. Of friendly strangers.
Janey rang and gossiped about everyone, asking Karen’s opinions and fishing for thoughts on Michel. Karen was diplomatic. The rain hit the window pane in wind-assisted swishes. Karen said goodbye and was silent.
All she heard now was this rain-swishing, a delicate brushing cadence. Then a car passing. She got up and walked about, put on her raincoat but discarded it, not wishing to go outside. A lone bird began to screech somewhere.
She got a whiff of Michel’s aftershave, from the sensory memory bank, and smiled to herself briefly, half-embarrassed to feel so girlishly young. She felt her heart beating.