Rain Story

 

Rain is our element. I move from my desk to close the window, but instead I pause, listless, looking out over the used car lot outside. The rain is soft and smells of greenness, giving the lie to the scents of tarmac and diesel that normally pervade this space. It takes me away from the unrelenting everydayness, away from the metallic paint and garish signs, to a place in my imagination where I would so rather be.

 

Which is why I say that rain is our element. In my mind’s eye I picture the full whiteness of a duvet and overstuffed pillows; I picture your skin and mine; I can almost feel the warmth that runs between us. As I watch us kiss, the picture widens outwards and I see a sloping ceiling, lace and net surrounding a low window, and on the windowpane; rain.

 

I somehow know that the building is a country pub. The wooden tables outside are drenched dark by the drizzle, the folded umbrellas flap miserably against their poles. Beyond them is an empty road, and beyond that the muted purples and greens of the Forest, scrubland undulating until it is absorbed into the gauze curtain of the rain.

 

Half my consciousness is back in the bedroom, dreamlike images of the forbidden meandering unbidden between me and my work. It is a comforting place to be; lost in my own creations of your skin, your tongue, the other parts of you I should never know. It is safe, so safe, and calm, as the rain follows the patterns of our hands, the drops chasing slowly down the glass.

 

Rain is our element. I see the droplets shining against the dark of your suit as we shelter beneath the pavilion steps. I feel – or imagine – my hands slide under your jacket and rest around your waist. And I hear you say “I know how you feel.” Yes, maybe; but do you know how I dream?