When It Rains

She left on a Tuesday. A rainy Tuesday, fittingly enough, marked by the most intense thunder and lightning display we’d seen that summer. She always loved the rain – especially a powerful late evening thunderstorm. We both did. The moment a storm began to move in, we’d head out the front door, giddy with anticipation. We’d sit on the porch swing, listening to the thunder crackling and rolling as the lightning streaked across the sky in a wicked electrical dance. I’d turn her around to look at me, and she’d flash her wicked grin as I gazed into her fiery green eyes; I always knew exactly what she desired in those moments.

 

We’d make passionate love in the dark with the thunder and lightning as our soundtrack and fireworks, while the raindrops that snuck past the porch roof sprinkled an occasional gentle coolness across the heat of our entangled bodies. And when she would fall asleep in my arms back on the porch swing, I would hold her close to me and look to the heavens, giving thanks for the storm, and for her love – because I knew both were too intense and fast-moving to last. I still taste her on my lips anytime it rains.

I moved to Phoenix last year – it never rains here.