He signaled the waiter for another round. As the cold liquid hit the glass, a familiar melody drifted from the jukebox in the corner—that unmistakable swing of Tierry mixed with the soulful, gravelly depth of Jorge. It was "Chovendo na Minha Bochecha."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, a sad smile touching his lips as the chorus peaked. "Yeah," he whispered, "but the worst of it is only falling on my cheek." Tierry - Chovendo na Minha Bochecha part. Jorge...
The lyrics started to weave through the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof. “Não é chuva que tá caindo do céu...” He signaled the waiter for another round
He sat alone, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see the ghost of the last message he’d sent: “Are you really not coming?” No reply. "Yeah," he whispered, "but the worst of it
A stranger at the end of the bar nodded toward him, a silent gesture of solidarity among the heartbroken. "Heavy rain tonight, huh?" the stranger asked.