The smell of rain reminds me of you.
No rain
It might not be the rain. It’s more a combination of city streets, and late at night, and that particular smell after the rain has come down. There are some places that still jolt my heart a little, even though you and I are a story long ago. Some streets I cannot walk without thinking of you. You marked your territory in your mind, and I can write over it but you (and I) are still there.
One rainy night I came to meet you, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I got on the bus (though I knew I shouldn’t), and walked into the bar, (though I knew I shouldn’t). I was pretending we were just friends (though I knew I shouldn’t). Yes, that same old story.
Why go to meet you, when we’d agreed that this proximity taunting of each other needed to stop? Why go to meet you, stand next you and make polite conversation with your friend when I wished no-one else in the room?
Two drinks in and you unexpectedly make our excuses. Outside, it is pouring down as only October can. I worry about your friend making his way home, and you say we should lose him. We’re off down a side street and I feel stupidly giddy. I have you to myself, we’re getting drenched and I don’t want to go home. There’s a minor scuffle over whether your jacket is going over my shoulders, leaving you in shirt sleeves. I can’t remember whether I accept - did I?
The rain gets heavier and you pull me into a doorway. Snug. Ever so friendly in here, isn’t it? Of course we kiss. I spent most of my time with you trying not to kiss you. My feet are getting wet from the little rivulets of water, with my unsuitable canvas shoes. I want you. I wanted you so badly. And always these temporary kisses: sheltering from the rain, on our way home, in the dark corner of a bar. Our kisses were always stolen somehow.
The rain ceases to matter. I would have kissed you in any meteorological condition. How to explain without reverting to worlds not turning, and our lips meeting… There was only you when we kissed. There was no just friends, there was no shouldn’t be there, there was no rain. Just me and you.
You should know that.
And then you walked me to the bus stop. And I sat on the bus alone; thinking of no rain, and my heart in the pit of my stomach.
Take Me Dancing…
Set to the soundtrack of the “Blue Pearl” song; a solitary kiss from a
girl from just south of the Tyne. “I’m a Maccum, not a Geordie” she
informed me, just outside the pool hall of the holiday park I was
staying on.
She wrote to me once, beautiful girl. A handwritten letter, a tape of songs with too much meaning inferred. I don’t remember her name. We were 14.
She wrote to me once, beautiful girl. A handwritten letter, a tape of songs with too much meaning inferred. I don’t remember her name. We were 14.
One Moment of Self-Control
In the light early hours of the morning I walked her home.
It was the end of just another night out and we wandered slowly through
the empty streets, looking occasionally (as people will do) through the
windows of the houses we passed. Most were still and empty, though some
were actually stirring despite the hour.
I can’t remember when or how I noticed her hand holding mine. I wasn’t aware of any sensation or touch until I looked down and saw it, as of the sudden, sharp feeling of pain when you observe a cut.
I held her hand tightly, the pleasure and comfort far outweighing the guilt (of course, I’d already kissed her boyfriend, a man obviously far too beautiful for his own good, hours before), not too far from her home.
It was only as we turned the corner onto her decidedly grey street that the rain came, suddenly and more or less out of nowhere (such an odd description but it feels apt). We reached her front door and, in one movement, she turned and kissed me, almost biting my lip in the suddenness of it all, shivering with anticipation and the cold running down our backs.
She muttered something about getting out of the downpour and into bed and we both laughed at the blunt way she said it as she took me by both hands and pulled me toward the door.
I wish I knew what stopped me, why at that point I decided this was something I shouldn’t do. Perhaps I’d have ignored the thought, were it all to happen again. But I did stop and with a long, long kiss goodnight I turned away and started the long walk home.
I can’t remember when or how I noticed her hand holding mine. I wasn’t aware of any sensation or touch until I looked down and saw it, as of the sudden, sharp feeling of pain when you observe a cut.
I held her hand tightly, the pleasure and comfort far outweighing the guilt (of course, I’d already kissed her boyfriend, a man obviously far too beautiful for his own good, hours before), not too far from her home.
It was only as we turned the corner onto her decidedly grey street that the rain came, suddenly and more or less out of nowhere (such an odd description but it feels apt). We reached her front door and, in one movement, she turned and kissed me, almost biting my lip in the suddenness of it all, shivering with anticipation and the cold running down our backs.
She muttered something about getting out of the downpour and into bed and we both laughed at the blunt way she said it as she took me by both hands and pulled me toward the door.
I wish I knew what stopped me, why at that point I decided this was something I shouldn’t do. Perhaps I’d have ignored the thought, were it all to happen again. But I did stop and with a long, long kiss goodnight I turned away and started the long walk home.
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