Rainy Days

The smell of the rain was cold, and shuddered in her lungs before coming out as a huff of smoke in her sigh. Hair was sticking to her face taking her soft brown locks and turning them into dark chocolate silk against pale cold flesh. It was the reflections of the world in the wobbly puddles that drew her attention away from the pounding in her chest. It wasn’t just the walk tiring her out.

There was a simplistic serenity and comfort in the warm hand holding hers something neither of the two adults, nor their inner children, wanted to think about. Doubt’s butterfly wings were beating little rhythmic solos against her heart, finding the perfect opportunity considering the stress of the recent day-by-day massacre of emotions pulled it so taunt. It’s a strange world she lives in; the concrete isn’t as slippery as the asphalt.

Under her sweater she feels the scars of her childhood burning in white-hot memory. Today is not a good day, even if it certainly isn’t a bad one. She walks with a certain deafness, muffling out the sounds of paranoia, trying to relish the security she finds herself in now with the advent of the man on her right. She knows it’s not going to last forever, ‘cause if nothing else death will rap upon the door of the future. Yet still she finds herself trying to memorize his eyes under the fogging glasses, the sound of his voice as it his emotions season his words in the four basic tastes of words. Sarcasm. Sincerity. Honesty. Fear. His sound is honey-sweet in her ear but she can’t figure out why this verbal nourishment isn’t enough for her today.

Yes it’s hard to figure out why a soul twists itself into such toxic shapes and feeds on itself like some kind of hellish ouroboros. Like some kind of never ending cycle of self-doubt and self-pity, chased down with a shot of self-loathing for good measure. Oh sure, like every victim of the 21st century she has many reasons to find herself in same predicament as that princess and that pea. Princess or not, this lack of sleep is killing her brain. Bicyclist wants around and she feels him bend her arm in some kind of urban dance to make room for the traffic behind.

With a raging case of Generation Y, she looks into the silences of the conversation, trying to block out thoughts of using them as empty spaces to fill with kisses. She needs him, and on that same token she doesn’t. Is it just the calm he brings? Questions idly patter down like the raindrops finding their way on the back of her neck. It hurts in a strange way, this ghost like emotion that finds itself squarely between the kind of “like” school girls talk about, and the hot humid intensity poets call love. She doesn’t want to think about that word right now. It’s not what she needs. The conversation continues.

She instead looks to his crooked countenance as they wait at the cross signal. Cars have splattered dazzling patterns on his brown jacket, creating new constellations she longs to draw with little kisses on the canvas of his body. She is a modern day Anais Nin, well hidden under layers and layers of righteous rage and bitter humor. Is it better or worse that he is no Henry Miller? Signal changes and her feet spring back to life as they begin to walk to the green rolling planes of Gangsta-Land. It’s then she notices the lack of sun and the course grey light that teases her woman’s mind with little fingers full of statistics.

He springs her out of her mental trap with a gentle squeeze promising to get her through the dangerous territory before taking his leave. It takes a minute for her to realize it’s the park he speaks of, not her mind. She is always alone in her mind. The patterns in the mud look like some kind of modern map to the suburban rot that has just begun to noticeably fester here in Jesus Town. It’s not that it was new, just new to scrutiny, and the tiny population that actually gave a damn have all been drowned out by the majority that wish to just make do. Rage trickles into her hand and he squeezes back in comfort. It’s the little things that matter.

She can smell his rock and hard place emotions before they approach the bridge but she speaks nothing of it, and instead lets him put words to it first. She agrees that he should leave. She needs the time to analyze the amount of footsteps he had in relation to hers, and the amount of laugh she teased out of him in relation to knowing smiles he let light up her face. She needs time in this rain to figure out exactly where along from point A to point B did she step on this electrical wire that connected her to him in such a way neither are fully certain about or comfortable with.

Her bag is set against the rail to give her time to press herself into his strength and enjoy the source of his honey-flavored words. Although not bitter, the sweetness is blotted out by the need to depart. He holds her in such a way that promises nothing but the wish of the ability to promise. She accepts this gift silently. And leaves with only beating in her chest.

“Loveme.Loveme.Loveme”