It’s been raining since Saturday morning. Young Mr K slept over last Friday night, and on Saturday morning as we slipped, warmed and moved against each other in our sleep, the rain falling was the constant sound as we drifted up from unconsciousness.
I have always associated the sound of rain, with the feeling of a lover against the body. It’s a throwback to something in my teenaged years, I know it. I have all these luscious memories of a night shared under a roof echoing with the sound of rain, and the only thing loud enough to be heard were sighs and sorrow. A night now twelve, thirteen years in my past, has shaped the way I experience rain falling on roofs, windows, walls and cement. Yet most of my adult life, that sound is met with me, mostly alone, and a wide expanse of bed, pillows and covers, or engaged in other more mundane activities than sleeping.
Saturday morning was an interesting trip. Mr K jumped up at 6am to go shave his head. Apparently, if he doesn’t do it at the same time every morning, it fucks up some click of his. He has a pretty sharp and
First off, as I woke up, the nakedness of my freshly shaved vagina was riveting. Second, the Young Mr K, who admits to being obsessed with breasts, satisfied his obsession by massaging, rubbing and pinching my nipples and breasts. We didn’t have sex or anything. We just laid there, and as I soaked in the sound of the rain, we soaked in each other and we talked.
The shapelessness of our feelings, led to a kind of shapelessness in our conversation, yet the conversation went on for hours, roaming from place to place.
He wanted to jump up and go. He had to go get a shave, he wanted to copy CDs, he had this to do, that to do. Instead, the rain fell and fell and we were caught in our garrulous natures, and the conversation continued to drift towards what we were doing, and what was happening and what was going to happen; between us at any rate. We began talked about our ‘feelings’.
I think then more than at any other time, I began to realise, that no matter how good it is between he and I, there is no future in our relationship. I think we both know it, although he wants me to stay. I know he does.
I told him once, “Stay? Can you make water stay? Try holding it in your hand? Try putting it in a glass. Even if you get it to stay, it loses it’s taste and grows stagnant.”
He got exactly what I was saying, yet I could see he didn’t like it; the look that crossed his face, the furrow in his brow.
I told him I think he is my great temptation, the test to see how badly I want to get out of the Caribbean. He is the sweet pull of separation, the aching tug of release.