Sounds: Sit outside for about an hour. Write down the sounds you hear.
There was something about the rain that forced her to sit down and listen, to close her eyes to everything outside and just feel the little drops hitting against the grass and pavement. It was the first rain of October, still warm, somehow, strong, the type of rain that you want to see from your chair, in your patio, like she was. She had never liked it when the weather started turning dark, when the sky became gray and there was not much difference between morning and afternoon. That was the reason why she hadn’t liked London that one time Patrick had invited her. When she had arrived in his place, and after they made love as it had become a habit in every single of their little rendezvous, she had been surprised when he had jumped to the shower saying he still had to be at work by eleven. She checked the digital clock by the bedside table, red numbers bright, and realized that it was, indeed, only ten-thirty.
To her, it looked more like five if not six in the afternoon, oh well. But then, that wasn’t the only thing that she had misunderstood in her life with Patrick, if anything, it had been a silly preamble to their next three years together. A series of back and forths, misunderstandings, half-truths, painful lessons. That was maybe, ironically enough, why she cherished the rain so much, its peaceful sound, it reminded her of him. He was long gone, now, and she had moved on, too, or at least she wanted to believe she had. And, there was no harm in reminiscing, right? In bringing back memories as she held the mug of burning hot tea in her hands. Like the time they’d been caught in the rain late at night, walking through a nearly empty Hyde Park. At this time only junkies and lovers, he’d told her. And to that, she had replied, well, which one are we?
Lovers, of course. And they proved it when they hid in a remote corner and made love under the rain. That was a notion then she’d begin to second guess a couple of months after things ended. Had they ever really made love? What they had was a lot more like a sex arrangement, once all the pieces of the puzzle fit together, and all she could think about was how naive she’d been to buy the whole long-distance bullshit. It was the perfect storm, though, and they both needed that. Stuck in the Dallas Airport because of the weather—thunderstorm. They both had the same reaction when they announced that their flights—hers to New York, his to London—would be delayed overnight. They’d laughed at the fact that they’d both uttered the same words, and once their eyes met they knew that delay was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to them.
Their airlines gave them a hotel room each, but they only needed one, and that was the start of their passionate affair. They took the shuttle together, and she followed him to his room, no questions asked, no need to know who was who. There was a sort of silent agreement that neither of them would ask the other anything. There was no name exchange and she even left earlier than him to catch the shuttle. But, then, as if it were some sort of sick game, they coincided again, gates next to each other. He got there as she was ready to board and handed her a piece of paper. I promised myself that if I saw you again today, I’d give you this. He smiled as she disappeared into the boarding gate. Once in her seat, she opened it. His phone number. She hesitated a couple of times, and it wasn’t until she landed back in Dallas that she decided to text him.
The rain always made her go back to that moment, to that first time they met outside the bedroom. That time in London when she waited for him by the hotel entrance. The excitement, the anticipation, feelings she didn’t know she was still able to have. Her heart was beating faster as she got his text saying he was on his way down. To which she replied that he hoped that’s where he’d be a few minutes from now. She blushed as she sent the message, but a couple of minutes later he was buried deep between her legs, eating her out like it was nothing.
The fact that he didn’t go pick her up at the airport never really bothered her. At least not until later, once everything was over. But it’s not like it didn’t cross her mind, as she sat in the subway (underground?) with her bag next to her. She had already done the big trip, why couldn’t he do the little one and get her at the airport? But if anything, it was a bit rude, but not really suspicious. She wanted to believe that what they had was real, and if not real, at the very least mutual, because there was a lot that she was risking for him.
The rain stopped for a brief moment, and she turned her eyes to the clouds, still gray, heavy with water. And, sure enough, just as suddenly as it stopped raining, it started pouring down with a force that wasn’t there before. A determination like the one she had the morning she went to the clinic to get rid of their baby. There was no better way to put it, nor had she ever tried to euphemize it. She knew well she was a murderer, but as a good Catholic wife, she had so much to confess already, that this was the thing she felt the less guilty about. But then and there, with that rain, she only remembered the good, the things in Patrick that helped her survive that moment in time, her father’s death, her mother’s illness, her husband’s addiction. He had been that anchor that ha kept her grounded--them was her happy place to the point that she knew that after a point, it’d become about herself, what she needed, that refuge that only he could give her, however sloppy. To a certain degree, maybe, they had been the junkies, too.