It Is Raining

It is raining. Pouring endlessly. It is as if the sky has something against the earth, and is dropping the biggest drops of water it can. It is silent outside, except for the steady rain; everyone is huddled inside their rooms like us. I have my face pressed against the window. It is cold, even though we have the fire cracking and popping in the grate. The fireplace. We are in a military hotel. The furniture is eastern; dark mahogany, polished wood. You are asleep on the bed. I do not turn around as you mutter in your sleep. I do not wish to see you; it takes me back to things I do not wish to think of.

It is raining. A steady pitter-patter, as if the sky is spilling glassy, translucent pearls. Each drop falling down and splashing against the ground, as if it has a meaning. But there is no meaning. The window I have my face pressed against is deadly cold. I can see the leaves shivering outside as I myself tremble. Yet I do not move away to get myself a blanket, or to warm myself beside the fire. I look sideways at the grate. Ashes in the grate. The fire has died, I notice now.

It is raining. I turn around to face you, unable to help myself. You are sleeping sidelong, your right arm over your forehead and your mouth open as if in divine pleasure. Resist.

It is raining. I cannot wait. Where is my coat? Covering my head under a hood, I walk outside the door. Down the creaking staircase; there are no elevators here. The lights go out. It is dark, and now the only sound is that of rain, and muffled voices coming from the other rooms. Somebody comes with a candle and walks with me down the stairs, trying to make small talk. I do not reply; I do not hear him.

It is raining. Raining on me. I am outside. Cold. Dark. Beautiful. The drops fall on my head, my face, my eyes, my lips. Then they slide down me, and splash against the ground. There is a child outside, near me. She is splashing in puddles of water, and cheering with joy. I turn to face her; she fades away. Memories. I was like that, exactly like that. Memories. What went wrong?

It is raining. You walk outside. I know it is you, but I do not look at you. You have your shoulder against me now. I do not speak, and I do not move. Your hand takes mine. I close my eyes. I am thankful. Stay with me. We walk together down the road. A deafening silence between us. Cardboard boxes and bottles. The asphalt is wet, and black. A hula-hoop and a skipping rope lie on the road. Your hand squeezes mine. I look at you.

It is raining. You have the most beautiful face. I open my mouth, and close it again. You do not see, or pretend not to see. I do not know. We walk on. There is a woman here, walking hurriedly along the road with her umbrella open over her. She is too busy walking, and is not noticing the rain. I can see you are not angry anymore. My tears are joining the rain now. I can see yours are doing the same. You have forgiven. I have forgotten. We walk on.

‘It is raining,’ you say.

I lean against you and smile as your fingers close on my shoulder.