Dragonflies in the Rain

“It’s raining,” he said.

“I like the rain,” she replied.  It was true: the rain reminded her of her childhood and of places she had traveled.  The rain brought many pleasant memories with it.

“I like you,” he said, with that crooked smile of his that belied his age, revealing a youthful innocence, which, he knew, made him irresistible to her.

“Did you know,” she started, trying to keep her composure if only for a moment longer as he stepped closer to her, “that dragonflies swarm before it rains?”

“No,” he mumbled from behind her, his lips skimming the tender softness of her shoulder.

“I learned that when I lived in China,” she volunteered, wondering if perhaps this flippant fact would interest him more than her skin, her smell, her shallow breath, her anticipation.

But it was exactly these facts about her past, her travels and adventures that she offered up so trivially, that made her so fascinating to him - and so desirable.

In one quick motion he pulled her to him with one hand, while the other hand brushed back her long, dark hair, allowing him to kiss that sweet spot on the back of her neck where she had the dragonfly tattoo.

She closed her eyes and sighed, losing herself in the moment and the tenderness of his lips, forgetting all about dragonflies and the rain.

 

May 11, 2010

Observations on a Tuesday Afternoon

I was sitting there in plain sight.  The parking lot was empty but for a few abandoned vehicles.  It was spring and I could hear birds chirping merrily though the open sunroof above me.  The sunshine was slowly thickening the air in the car, making it difficult to breathe.  Cars passed by on the road above, their drivers failing to notice that the hillside leading from the pavement to the parking lot was covered in lush green grass and a colourful mixture of purple and yellow weeds.  Soon the gardener will come to mow the lawn, shearing off the coloured heads of the flowers and returning the hillside to an appropriate state of monotony.

The young man didn’t see me as he passed.  He crossed the parking lot with a bounce in his step.  He wore brown dress pants, just the right length, and a black button-down shirt.  He looked dressy but in a casual sort of way befitting his years and, most likely, his station in life.  He must like his job here at the art gallery the way he walked up the hill toward the front doors of the building.  Not trudging up the hill, but walking effortlessly, as if the ground was level.

Then he stopped, bent over, reached to the ground and with his left hand picked something from the grass.  I didn’t recognize what it was until he turned and brought it to his lips.  He blew gently, and with a faint smile, watched the dandelion seeds carry through the air on the breeze.

April 20, 2010