Like Rain

a short story about love and how warm it can be.

I don’t know how many times we find ourselves desperate for one another, her reserved “piano” fingers wrapped up in my sausage-like ones as she squeezes for her life; for our lives. It was as though, if either one of us were to let go, the other would float away. This moment is no different. Our foreheads are slick with sweat but we push them together anyway, letting skin and fluid mingle entirely without care as to what rolled into whose eyes. We are one, we would always be one, and there is no floating away this time.

“I’m scared,” her voice is small and frail, and for the first time in the many years that I had been with her, I am scared too.

“Why?” I ask, truly curious, unabashed in my final moments as I was many moments before. Is it the obvious end that scares her? Or is it something deeper? I can hear the frenzy of voices and vehicles as the people of the island attempt to flee. I feel sad for them, sad that they have so much hope for a situation that requires so little.

Deep, dark eyes brimmed with tears and reddened by heat emanate a look of confusion as she chances a glance at me. I can see, in her eyes, the reflection of what my own capture behind her: the slow, bright-orange explosion of our love. I can’t shield her from everything and perhaps that will be my biggest regret.  

“I don’t know,” she whispers, lower lip trembling. I place a dirty thumb to that lip and transfer the charcoal gray that lingered from earlier, but she only smiles. “I’m going to miss this.” I want to laugh. Any other day and my hand would have been slapped away, but this was the last day, and one should never go to bed angry at the one they love.

“No, you won’t,” I murmur, and the phrase cuts deep. The look on her face tells me so, thick brows pulled together and an upper lip curled in utter disbelief. Now it is my turn to smile, to eat my words, because I am going to miss this, too. I open my mouth to tell her, but I can see pensive eyes trail away from mine, flicking from side to side above and behind me.

“The rain was beautiful,” she crooned, and I bring my own confused gaze to the sky.

Flakes of black, soft and warm, trickle down from the sky. “Like rain,” I say. An ashy, unforgiving sort of rain that fills the lungs. And it is beautiful in a way, some tinged with fading fire. I look to her, my source of strength.

“I’m scared.” I offer myself to her, honest and open, and she rests a scorching hand on a face too hot to feel.

“Why?” I can tell she’s crying as she asks, and I know I am too. 

But it is much too hot to feel.