She could always feel the rain before anyone else did. Here is her secret: not touching, but listening. A moment before the skies open, a subtle shift in pressure releases a small click. A shift in the world, a shift in her head. And then it rains and skin acknowledges what it was too slow to pick up, before eyes finally catch the little missiles streaking from the opening above. Then shuffling to get out the umbrella, to pull up the hood, save the hair and the clothes and the bag, before it must be incorporated, at last. Like the invisible air, the rain perforates.
Her ear is quicker than her hand, than her eye. The sky will open soon; she holds her breath, listening. Instead, she hears him coming. He opens the door behind her – she can just hear it shift the air, and the impending remonstrance for getting caught in the rain, for trying to catch the rain, echoes in her mind. Smiling to herself, she lets him approach, his unshod feet silent on the deck in the little backyard. He brings the warmth of the fire, the scent of sizzling bacon, the scratch of a woollen shirt with him, right up against her back. He inhales to speak, perhaps to startle her, certainly to scold, but she interrupts.
“I could hear.”
“Me, or the rain?”
“Both.”
She turns to find him, to confirm his presence with hands and eyes, to rush inside and save them both from the forthcoming rain.
He is gone.
She closes her eyes, hands raised to the sky, ready to embrace that emptiness instead. Click. It pours down, filling and emptying; she tries to catch him, precious silt in the slow sieve of her hands. He washes away.
Ashley Woodward
No comments:
Post a Comment