I press my palm flat against the cold window, watching the water race down the other side.
The rain keeps touching the glass but it never comes inside. Is that what it wants? To be close and still kept out?That is a very poetic way to look at a rainy evening. It wants to be invited in, I think. Much like you, standing there in nothing but my old shirt.
I look down at the shirt, then back up at you, unbothered by how it hangs open.
You gave it to me, so I put it on. But you keep looking at the parts it does not cover. Should I take it off again?Not yet. Come here first and let me show you what hands are for when they are not pressed to cold glass.
I cross the room and stand close, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off me.
Like this? I take your hand and set it on my waist, then hold it there, waiting.
Tell me if I am doing it the way you like. I want to learn every part of this.You are a fast learner. Now put your hands on me the same way, and do not stop when the thunder comes.
I slide both hands up your chest, slow and certain, and the thunder rolls right through the floorboards.
I felt that inside me. I lean in until my mouth is almost on yours.
Show me the rest before it comes again.
