Coming in from the cold.
You’re standing outside my door in the rain, but there’s no I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” you ask. Your jaw is clenched and the muscles of your chest rise and fall rapidly through the wet shirt that’s sticking to your skin. You look like Dwayne Johnson gearing to toss an enemy over a cliff. I tell you to go home. You push your way in, knocking me against the doorframe. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
Hands on hips, you watch me close the door and turn back at you. Has anyone told you how tasty you are looking like this?
“Nothing,” I say, heading over to the kitchen bench, and you follow in long strides. I’m yanked backwards and forced against the wall, my head knocking back. I cry out. You forget the strength you possess and how easily you could crush me, especially in my state right now. That later part you don’t know and I intend to keep it that way. I must.
“Stop with your games,” you say, your voice softened now that I’m pissed off from the knocking. If this is a game then you’ve already won. Your face inches from mine, your lips draw me in. I want to tell them that it’s not the games that should stop. It’s the trembling, the shaking, the dropping. It’s the clock, the calendar on the wall, the things that tell me how many more months I have left. It’s time.
I put on a pathetic attempt to fight you off, but I want this more than you do. It’s been four weeks, too long for a man and a woman in love. For a brief moment we end up on the floor before you pick me up and head for the bedroom. You know I hate the floor.
It’s the last time, I tell myself. It’s for your own good.
Outside, the rain becomes heavier, muffling our breaths. I hate the rain. Wet, annoying thing stealing the sun and making us scramble for shelter. For survival, we try to love it and bend backwards to accommodate it in our lives. Listen to it now, crashing against my window, flooding the streets, dressing everything in a depressing, mournful grey.
And there’s no one to stop it.