Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The Rain Becoming
“There is rain on your breath,” he tells her, smiling.
“Those are tears,” the girl says, shivering. “We should get back in.”
But kisses spark brightest in spring’s first water. And so they root their heels to the earth, embracing like two waves who have not crashed up against each other for the length of a war. Three desert years.
There are twenty desert yards to the car.
And so they swim.
“I wore your necklace every day. Beneath the dog tags. The guys made fun of me at first. Such a girly thing. But then they saw your picture.”
She touches the tarnished metal in the notch of his neck. Places her mouth on the wet skin beside. The girl absorbs the flurried pulses into her lips, and down, down, into her embedded feet. Her toes curl with each vibration. Thunder crashes, and a whiff of ozone warns the air.
He removes the necklace to lace it around her neck. The storm swells. Silver flashes gold, alchemized by the heat lightning in the lovers’ eyes.
“I knew you’d bring it back! I knew you’d come back to me,” she laughs above the downpour.
“I made a promise.”
Their lips fuse. Electric water.
The soldier, stiff in his uniform, bends his girl back, so that her hair will blow wild, so that she will laugh again. He wants to watch the rain becoming, in that crackling current between a smoky bodice and its snowy skin.
He watches still.
[This is my entry for Bernita Harris's Weirdly flash fiction contest, which is open through midnight (EST), Dec. 14th. There is a 250 word limit, any genre. If Bernita's lovely photo inspires you, then have a go at it!]