A Dry Spell

A Dry Spell

It never rains. I wait for him under blue skies, under grey, through icy slicing winds or gently breezes, but he does not come. The rain will not fall, and he will not come. Every cloud that crosses the sky is an arrow of hope in my heart, but no droplets are ever released, not even my own tears. The world holds its breath, the clouds keep their burden, and I wait, longing for rain.

Storm grey eyes and skin like fresh snow; he was never one for sunshine. It didn't suit him to be touched by such unforgiving light, for it would throw into sharp relief the ravages life had already torn into his young soul. The sun could not warm him, but perhaps the rain could soften the harsh edges, each tiny drop wearing away a little more until the surface left was no longer painful to touch. He would let no one close but me, for he did not care if I bruised myself on his sharp, angular character. Causing me pain once caused him pleasure, and in his quest to hurt me he pulled me close in to him, using his own flaws and torment as a weapon. I remember...

I remember him, and I am caught up in the memories as I am caught in the flow and gathering of the clouds overhead. I remember the way the raindrops formed little rivers on his cheeks and flung themselves, glinting like jewels from his hair as he threw back his head, rejoicing in the storm. I remember his laugh stripped of all cruelty, full of gladness and hope, of new beginnings and the cleansing of sins. I remember his hands and his lips, chill with the clinging droplets as they brushed my own damp skin. I remember, and clench my fists until the nails cut into the palms, an echo of the pain he once caused me and now causes again.

He fascinated me. A morbid, awful fascination, as that which makes one examine the corpse of a bird, tracing the perfect lines of the feathers, the delicate feet and the bloodied beak, astonished by its beauty even in death. I could not turn away from him, though he expected me to do so, to run in fear and disgust while he laughed at my weakness. And as I clung to my watching he showed me ever more of himself, each new revelation offered up with the violence of a sword thrust, aimed to slice hatred into my flesh; yet I only looked on in growing wonderment as the pattern and the sense of it emerged, scintillating strands of complexity that twisted and wove into the person he had become. We danced together, a private war and a private love affair, and always it would rain.

The clouds are gathering, and I feel my chest contract with longing and half-denied anticipation. After so long I can tell myself he will not come, I can almost make myself believe, but until those first drops fall the hope will remain. It was the beginning of the rainstorm, that heavy grey day, the release of those waters that released something inside him, that turned his insults into sobbing laughter as the rain drenched us both to the bone, and now he is for ever entwined in my mind with the clouds that he so inexplicably resembles. I tell myself he will not come, that once the storm has begun I will know it as true, and then I can begin to forget. I will forget, but now I remember. So many memories throng within me, and as I wait I relive each in the fullest detail my minds eye can provide. I experience the delight and exploration of those times as thoroughly as I did in the actual event. Those memories will never grow old for me, though now they are permeated with sadness and pain, no longer the thrill of discovery but an ever-present ache of loss and the longing for what has been. And other memories, memories of the end of it all, of his words and mine, memories that I cram back into the darkest corners of my mind, as I promise myself that he will come.

Let it rain. Let it only rain and he will be here.

He let me in, and I did not turn away. Behind all that beauty he though himself a monster too horrible to look upon and he was proud to be so, he hated me ever more thinking that his last weapon was useless against me. And yet the closeness beguiled him. He wanted me as I wanted him, to touch and to know, to solve the puzzle of our different souls and make them fit together into one smooth whole. To be free to laugh and cry and hold each other as it rained. For it would always rain. It became our sign, a private signal, a joke of fate, and the hissing and pattering of the drops was the music for our dance.

Pain and pleasure so inextricably intermingled, as in the agony and joy of these memories, as in our lovemaking, as in the sting of tears and the chill of rain, and the sweet anguish of teeth and nails scoring flesh. As in the skies, darkening now, bringing both hope and terror too intense to bear. My breath catches in my throat and I fall to my knees, curled around the pain in my chest as the first drops fall. At first cold on the back of my neck, now drenching my clothes as the sky gives up the burden stored through this dry spell. The world is filled with the scent of the rain, and as it washes over me I find myself laughing as he once did, laughing and crying for new beginnings and the death of old ways. Yet my laughter is empty without him, the sound coming hollow and meaningless, echoing from lungs of metal or stone not living human flesh.

So cold, I cannot stop shivering. There are no arms to hold me, no warm body pressing against my own. The rain is falling all around me and he has not come. But what is rain after all? Precipitation, water from the sky. A nuisance to picnickers, a friend to farmers. What does rain know of love? I love him, and I will wait.