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It has been raining for days,
now. Since last Friday. The ground has turned into a vast oil-pastel-brown
bucking snake, a water-mattress of chocolate Jell-O. The birds are quiet – their
soggy songs crouch sulkily in their muddy, twiggy nests. The children are
playing way past their bedtime. The house is fading in the dimming light. It
begins.
The wind gusts in transparent tendrils through the wire-mesh of the
bathroom exhaust, tickles. The wind. He knocks on the front-door windows, but
his vibrating fingers bear rings carved out of cold metal, and it would not do
for this impetuous stranger to enter and defile the muted, golden warmth of the
leather-lined drawing room. He screams in frustration. Bangs on the doors and
windows. Incites the dogs of the house to rebel against inculcated silence, and
scares the children into their vanilla beds. Jeweled raindrops scratch against
the glass of my bedroom window; shrapnel of the explosions in the sky. Friends
of the wind have arrived finally, to help him in his assault on the house.
Emboldened, he howls, and the sea-sky is torn apart. Milky electricity spills
through the jagged rents in the blue-green fabric, splays shadows across our
patchwork quilt – underneath which you hide on my chest, and I nuzzle yours. The
thundering storm is the background score of our love. The wind is an old
voyeur, and his moans mask ours. The creaking of the stairway conceals the
rhythms of our bedroom. Outside, everything is making violent, desperate love,
in a massive orgy of light and sound and movement, and inside, our love is
gasping its final, heaving sighs.
Tomorrow, our bed shall split down the
middle, and the rains shall subside.
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