And then it started to rain.
Not a normal Portland rain, not that incessantly nagging drizzle. No, this was a storm. A fantastic Midwestern style thunderstorm, complete with hail and lighting, maybe even a distant rumbling of thunder. Gigantic bombs of refreshing late summer rain soaking everything in sight. The air smelled of dirt, smelled of the earth, smelled like the barefoot childhoods of young adults clinging desperately to their youth.
A beautiful problem leaving the bar, as it was one in the morning and I had a twelve block walk back to the apartment. I surveyed the quiet neighborhood and noticed a pair of well worn chucks that had take up residence next to my own. I looked up at the green eyed cutie watching the rain next me and nodded. She smiled, she understood. I grabbed her hand and we dashed across 39th street, instantly soaked through our light summer clothes. Her smile curled in a mischievous fashion, there was fun to be had, but specifics had not yet been mentioned. The lightning flashed and our shadows marched hand in hand on the sidewalk in front of us. A loud clap of thunder rang out making her grasp more firmly onto me for a moment.
She pulled me along, starting to skip, starting to dance in the early morning rain. She laughed as she stomped in a puddle, soaking us both. I laughed too, and I meant it. This was life, this was living. Dancing in an early morning thunderstorm with a green eyed cutie.
Our clothes were now completely soaked, hanging like rags in this monsoon when she started to unbutton my shirt. Yes, of course, what a move, time to get naked and start the revolution. This was no green eyed cutie, this was a green eyed revolutionary. A Che Guevara with lips and hips, and I was not only amazed, but a little bit in love. She finished with my buttons and peeled her own tank top off her slim frame. Lightning flashed again, perfect timing from above to light up her deep tan, to show me her smile once again.
Dance with me. Smile with me. Stay the night and dream with me.
She laughed and called me a romantic with emphasis on the hopeless. She told me she’d break my heart, but she’d stay the night anyway. She said she always flees when things start to feel real, and she wasn’t looking to get attached to some romantic puppy dog in the rain. I told her we’d discuss it over pancakes, she laughed again and said she was more a raisin bran type of girl. Pancakes were so cliché these days.
We made it back to the apartment and fell into bed, our bodies soaking the sheets, and not caring at all. Rain beating down on my building’s roof, flooding the sidewalks, watering the later summer earth; and we did not care at all.
Later, after; I stared at the lazy ceiling fan as she slept curled into my chest, and realized that this is life, this is love. I drifted off to sleep with a faint smile on my face, excited for a new tomorrow.
I woke up alone. She didn’t lie.