By Eva Menovsky

 

It was raining.

 

It was raining.

Vivaciously bouncing.

The kind of rain that dances on your skin.

We went outside and rode bicycles to a little town in Denmark.

By Shakespeare’s Castle.

It was crowded.

Tourists were standing in line to get in.

We snuck around to the back where the ocean was waiting.

Surrounded by water crashing against us, I took off my shirt and my pants.

The rest followed.

He took off his.

And there we were, both naked on the rocks, with the rain falling on our empty skin.

“Fuck,” he shouted, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And he dipped his toes in.

It was raining.

Heavily pouring.

The kind that leaves marks on your skin.

We sat on a bench in the park.

It had been beautiful the day before.

Silence around us, except the rain ricocheting off the pavement.

The only warmth was our hands entwined.

He kissed me, and the smoke of his cigarette filled my lungs.

Like my clothes, he clung to me while the flood alarm raised Code Red.

We took shelter under the nearest bridge.

I looked at him in the bright light, finally out of the rain.

And I let go of his hand.

It was raining.

Intermittently, repeatedly.

The kind of rain you don’t know when it will begin again.

We went inside the restaurant he owned in the west of Amsterdam.

He asked if I believed in faith.

“I only move when faith tells me to.” I told him.

What was going to happen next, laid in the hands of the coin, he placed on the table.

We ate oysters. We didn’t kiss.

We played arcade games. We didn’t sleep.

We danced. We didn’t touch.

After three days, he asked, “is this forever?”

The coin said no.

And we never spoke again.

It was raining.

Beautifully endless.

The kind of rain you think will never stop.

We walked down the streets of Paris, he told me I was his everything.

His umbrella covered us, until he dropped it.

Streams of water fell on my face as I laughed at the clouds.

“I’m singing in the rain.” he sang.

He tapped his feet.

I smiled, finding joy in heavy weather for the first time.

We jumped in puddles and they splashed our faces.

He took my hand, spinning me endlessly.

But soon enough the singing and the rain stopped.

And I was left dizzy.

It was raining.

Softly, but noticeable.

The kind of rain you don’t feel till you’re soaking wet.

We laid in the hammock in his house by the canals of Amsterdam.

He played with my fingers.

The bass of the music pumped on the beat of my heart.

Boom.

He looked at me.

I sank away in the gentle fabric, all around us.

I wanted to tell him.

But I couldn’t get my lips to move.

He stood up.

And he went to her.