The rain fell outside, buckets of water being thrown against the building. The thunder rolled, making her believe that the world was being cracked in half like an egg in a frying pan. The trees swayed, long and green, allowing for the shadows to dance more feverishly on the white walls of the apartment.
Between the first and second storm, he walked over to visit for a while. Over a bottle of red wine, candles lit and music playing, they talked and caught up as old friends should. They laughed, talked about music, talked about their families and the past as well as the future, individually; together. Plans were made, laughs were exchanged.
The second storm came to pass and no one could hear the couple anymore in solitude between the walls. No one knew the exchanges being had, and those few hours played out like only 15 minutes together. She didn’t want to let him go and told him so repeatedly.
The wine unlocked the words from her heart; she spilled secrets that she would never have told him before. I’ve written about you, she said. You’re in my stories. He was surprised. She would never show him though. She couldn’t. I like you here, she said. He grinned a wide grin. She liked to make him smile. He was halfway through the doorway saying he should let her sleep. It was late. She pulled him back, hugged him some more. He stepped away and she pulled back again just to look at him. She liked looking at him. She made a memory of him in her library of faces and times and places. This would be one of them.
He walked down the stairs and she smiled at him. I’ll see you later, he said. And it was true, she would see him later. She knew that for a fact.
The next day, she could still smell him– on her hands, on her clothes, in her hair. And although their adoration for each other was sporadic, undefined and emotionally intense, it left a feeling of satisfaction, hope and love in a place where it didn’t exist all the time. For those moments, each other was all they needed. And it was good.