Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

Vicious the Boat

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 09:56:08 +0800

3. Song Sweeter

Vicious the boat dropped anchor as she sang and sang, soaked in moonlight.

She stood by the stern, gazing into the horizon. He wondered if she sang for the sea or the stars; for safety or the slain. He sat opposite of the deck with a rod in hand and a line in the water.

He wondered if the fish would be amiable tonight and he wondered how long till they bite.

Though he had not heard the song afore, he soon realized that he knew of it. It was a song to lull a child to sleep, to tame a manticore, to make a sculpture weep. It was one to break a one’s heart.

And, of songs, he knew of no song sweeter.

He wondered if the sky and stars were pleased and he wondered if she sang for some other.

He wondered if she sang for him.

The line twitched, and he reeled in.

Vicious the boat dropped anchor as she sang and sang, soaked in moonlight, as the monster stirred beneath.

Vicious the Boat

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 09:54:09 +0800

2. Seven Seas

Vicious the boat drifted under the shade of the ship aside it.

The pirate frigate, Volatile, loomed, port side, over the lesser vessel, and from its deck, the Pirate King of the Seven Seas announced himself; threatened and demanded — a king must have a lady queen.

“Conceal yourself within the cabin,” he advised her.
“You must stay safe.”
“Only as so to ensure yours.”

The boat creaked against the weight of the Pirate King landing upon the deck. His peg leg thumped, thumped against the wood as he walked towards the other with a sneer.

The Pirate King drew a great scimitar to match the rapier drawn before him.

“Needles are for little girls, not men,” the Pirate King declared.
“Cleavers are for butchers, not kings,” he answered.

The snarl of steel against steel rung as they fought under the shadow of the ship that eclipsed the sun. The deck ran scarlet as pirate steel drew blood from his arm.

“I have drawn first blood.”
“You shall have nothing more,” he let the Pirate King know.

Vicious the boat drifted under the shade of the ship abeam, its deck littered with the once Pirate King.

Vicious the Boat

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 09:52:00 +0800

1. Set Sail

Vicious the boat was a wooden boat meant for two.

It had a square sail, a small rudder, and a little cabin in which to sleep in. They had built it a few days afore, and it was time to depart.

“This is it,” she said to him.
“You’ve not left anything?”
“Only memories.”
“Oh, you should always take those with you.”

He pushed the boat from shore as she stood upon deck, staring towards what was to be left behind. A tear strayed from the puddles that were her eyes. He saw and asked, “is it for mirth or melancholy?”

“It is for both,” she answered.

Her hand helped him up, and his wiped her cheek. She urged him to change his soaked clothes, but he watched land disappear before he did.

Vicious the boat was a wooden boat meant for two, and as two as her crew and cargo, it had set sail to where the winds blew.

The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl

Sat, 07 Apr 2012 00:52:00 +0800

Part 5 by Patrick

(indeterminate)

Anna was of an indeterminate age when she finally walked away from the bench Martin sat upon. One can not quantify a span of time when the means of measurement has ceased to operate.

Anna sat beside Martin — perhaps for a moment, perhaps for a lifetime. She spoke to him. She whispered into his ear. She berated and screamed. She held him.

Time then, after, began to trudge on.

Martin looked towards her, but found that he had been a moment too late. She was gone. In the succeeding days, he desperately sought her. He thought of apologizing once more, and suggest that, if instructed slowly, he might learn to dance again. It had been a decade before Martin decided to give up this notion. He had loved another, but not as much.

Anna walked through a curtain of raindrops as she looked towards the static that was once the sky. She thought of the birthday cake she had not eaten and how sweet it could have tasted. She thought of her cat, September, and her dead feline eyes. She thought of how dim the street lamp was the day she decided she would love the boy she danced with. Martin. She thought of Martin.

Anna was dead before the raindrops struck the strange flowers that littered the meadow she found herself in when she decided she had walked far enough.

The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl

Fri, 28 Oct 2011 01:12:00 +0800

Part 4 by Patrick

Twenty-four.

Anna was twenty-four when she finally woke, and wished she had not.

The first word she spoke was his name, asking the where and what of him. None around her answered, and after a few more days in bed, she set out to find him.

Anna had found him drunk, by himself, at the park bench by the street clock where they used to sit together. Martin was surprised at first, and then asked her to forgive him — he could not wait for her. She told him it was all right, and moved closer but he shied away and continued apologizing. He asked her to leave him to watch the moon and the stars. She reminded him that they were hers too. She reminded him of the dinners, drinks and dances. He did not dance anymore, he said, and he would not dance with her anymore.

He argued that she left him, and that things whither and break. That hers was an instant compared to his eternity. She asked him if she could sit beside him, and he told her she should not. She asked again. And then twice more.

She walked away as the gust blew summer leaves off the trees, and they fell like rain. She realized that her treasure, her prize and fortune — as she considers it; them — was to meet its end. She was walking away from him. Her mind reeled from the sheer sadness of losing something that was hers for such a short while. She was seven and it was slipping from her tiny fingers. She did not want the lamp to hit the floor. She uselessly thought of him moving farther, and father, and farther still. She remembered September — she could stop the truck, but she could not stop him.

Then silence.

Anna walked back towards the park bench and sat beside Martin, wrapping her arm around his. He did not resist. For where the sky once was, the black and white of static droned. She gazed into Martin’s eyes. They were black and they were beautiful.

She wiped tears from her cheeks relieved that she had not killed the man she loved. She looked upon the summer leaves around them. Blurred cars had frozen streaks for tail lights.

She thought of what she had done and of its consequence.

Anna had done the unthinkable, she had stopped Time.

The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 22:37:00 +0800

Part 3 by Patrick

Nineteen.

Anna was nineteen when she fell in love.

He was called Martin and he knew nothing of her ability. She had met him at dance class three months ago. They had been sitting together when dance partners were to be chosen, and they knew no one else. He liked the way she moved, he said, and asked her if she wanted to practice out of class. Over dinner and drinks.

After outlining the difficulties of dancing within the confines of a restaurant, Anna reminded him that she did not decline his offer. They did dance, late that night, under a street light.

They had been dancing ever since.

It was raining this particular night, and their hands were in each other’s as they crossed the street. The truck driver saw them too late. The sound of rubber skidding on wet asphalt was all they heard before they turned towards glaring headlights that came directly towards them. Martin held Anna tight and spun her to shiled her from the truck that careened towards them.

And then nothing.

Martin looked toward the truck. It was frozen a few feet from where they stood, its contents frozen in the air — a photograph of a truck mid-topple. It flickered. He picked her up and carried her toward the sidewalk. He tried to console her as she cried. He told her they were safe. She told him he was, but she was not sure about herself. The sound of static was deafening to Anna. She asked him to hold her, and he did.

The truck crashed into the closed coffee shop a block away.

Anna was not breathing.

The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 22:30:00 +0800

Part 2 by Patrick

Fifteen.

Anna was fifteen, the day after it had rained, when she remembered. The smell of rain filled her room from her open window as she sat by her study table, building a scale model of the solar system for science class. She was about to finish placing Saturn’s rings when her mother called for her. She sighed before she walked downstairs to find mud tracks along the dining room floor. September, her cat, apparently, had trodden mud from their garden into the house. Her mother wanted the floor and the cat tidied.

Anna tried, ineffectually, to catch September. The cat knew that if she was caught, the bathtub would be its only destination. She chased the cat around the house, calling to her sweetly as she did, until it found an open window. She mopped up the mud grudgingly.

After a drink of water, she walked up to her room. Upon opening the door, she discovered Jupiter and Saturn on the floor with paw prints on them. September had entered through the window.

Anna screamed as she began to chase the cat anew. She shut the window as September leapt from floor to bed to her study table. The table wobbled, and she watched as the lava lamp fell.

The lamp shattered as it met the floor and, all at once, she remembered.

Angry, she turned towards the offending creature, willing her to stop as she did years before.

And then the sound of static.

September hovered mid-leap as Anna crept closer. The cat hung gracefully, a three-dimensional photograph in the middle of her room. She grabbed the cat, but it would not budge. She pushed, and pulled to no avail. It was a solid thing suspended in mid-air. She was frightened that her mother might enter and find a flying cat in her room. Not as frightened, though, as when she saw the cat’s eyes.

There was only static where once were the cat’s eyes. She trembled as she backed away into a wall, covering her eyes as she cried. The sound of static waned, and there was a thud. She tasted the metallic tang of blood on her lips. Her nose was bleeding. She slowly uncovered her face.

September lay dead on her bedroom floor.

The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 22:16:00 +0800

Part 1 by Patrick

Seven.

Anna had just turned seven when she first discovered she had the ability to impose stasis on objects she willed so.

She had received a lava lamp from her father, a thing she had made space for on her study table, to be placed in between her reading lamp and the stuffed bear. She had wanted one since everyone could remember. Cake and ice cream were ignored as she ran up the stairs to her room, two steps at a time.

As Anna pushed her door open, however, she felt the lava lamp slip from her small hands and it began to fall. She quickly understood that her new treasure; her prize and fortune — as children consider things such — was to meet the wooden floor boards and, consequently, break. Her young mind reeled from realization, to the utter horror of it, and to the sheer sadness of losing something that was hers for such a short while.

She could not decide whether to berate herself for her clumsiness or the unnecessary celerity, feeling tears welling up. She watched uselessly as the lamp fell, and fell, and fell some more. She did not mean for it to happen, and she did not think it fair. She did not want the lamp to hit the floor.

Then it stopped.

Anna wiped her eyes as she stared at the lava lamp. She smiled.

She sat before the lamp, and studied it. It hung suspended in the air and flickered, as if a television image that suffered from bad reception. The blobs of blue and red wax within ceased to float around as it should. Amongst the noises of her family downstairs, she could hear the faint drone of static. The flickering and sound disappeared as she plucked the lava lamp from the air. Then the world around her turned black.

Anna had collapsed from fatigue, the doctor said, and for the next two days, she remained in bed.

Then Came the Rain

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 22:01:00 +0800

Part 3 by Pia

It began, suddenly. The skies had brightened with the midday glare. For a few moments, the clouds began to glow and the winds came, as if to tear the veil and finally let the sun look down upon the earth. No one took notice.

A black wind began to blow with a heavy warmth that grew into an unfeeling rush. With every breath of that wind, all that was white lost their radiance, and all that was dull grew dark. The skies began to tarnish and all the world below followed suit. Then came the rain. But people knew the rain. They did not bother when it began to rain again.

Till, that is, till it never stopped. That afternoon, the rain stretched into the evening, and then the morning, and on – two weeks, and not a change, three weeks, and not a change – no light, no break in the greyness, no gap in the falling water, but water, water, always water, always the rain, day and night, till even the cycles of time began to fade to grey, growing deeper and deeper. It never stopped, never, since it began – since the rains began to flow as if the oceans had been overturned and began pouring from the skies.

Sometimes, the wind would be there. It would come and thrash the rain against buildings, making bludgeons of whatever it came across. Sometimes, all would be still, and rain would pour straight down in continuous lines, finding and seeping into any gap it could find. It was the wind that finally broke the power systems, drowning electricity lines, overthrowing towers, leaving the cities dark. People were driven into their homes, behind locked doors, to pray for an end to this blessing turned blight.

In a matter of weeks, a hand had swept over the country and remade the cities – leaving them lightless, with leprous paint and stained concrete on buildings, trash everywhere, and streams for streets. Streams reclaimed territory, rushing over roads and backyards, tearing through houses, entering unwelcome into living rooms. People, who could, retreated to the upper stories of their homes. People, who could not, lived with their feet in the water. All clamored for evacuation.

On windless nights, helicopters would circle the skies, taking people from here and there, to places no one knew where – but places, for sure, that knew no rain, no wind, no floods.

He was not with her the day the unending rains began. Before the power and phone lines faltered, he would call, and she would tell him to stay where he was. Weeks passed, but as the waters and the winds rose, she found him at the door of her apartment – bruised and soaking wet, with candles, food, and water. She threw her arms around him, and murmured something about being glad that he was safe.

She tried to smile and said, “What is this, dinner? By candlelight?”

But he only looked at her and then she kept quiet. His face was grim.

He went to change into dry clothes and she began to arrange the supplies in the kitchen cabinets. When he came to help her, they did not speak. She avoided his eyes and his touch, flinching when their hands met. He would begin to ask her a question, but she would sigh, and he would not continue. Finally, she left him there, in the kitchen, taking a candle with her to the bedroom. He only followed her with his eyes.

Through the kitchen door, he saw her place the candle by the window, and gaze out, clutching the sill. He could see her knuckles, white, like teeth. He could see the goose bumps all over her arms. Her eyes open and glazed over, stared out at the grey flatness, six stories below. It was not night yet, as the living room clock would say. In his gut he could also sense that the sun was still there, somewhere above the clouds. He could see a dull light from outside streaming through the window. It lit her face with a ghostly radiance.

The rain began to beat against the window. He could hear it, the tinkle on the glass, relentless and unvarying. It seemed to lull them both to sleep. Suddenly, the window flew open, letting in the uproar. It blew out the candle, stretching out the curls of smoke into nothingness. He moved, as if meaning to run towards her. Instead, he stopped himself and kept watching.

She stood by the open window and gazed out. She saw that out there, the wind blew in all its power, circling everything, moving through the fallen posts and flapping billboards, pressing against every window. Its voice rang in her ears, howling with the chorus of the hastening waters and the shrill screams of breaking things. And she stood there, bound, listening, her mouth partly open, breathing, or struggling to breathe.

The wind entered the window and with it, the cold. It played around her, circling her again and again – running fingers through her hair, twisting it into a noose around her neck, feeling her blanched skin, breathing cold, cold, breath down her neck. Slowly, but not afraid, she let go of the window sill, and stretched out her hands towards the raindrops that the wind offered her. As she caught them, she let them trickle down her arm, watching, as they left a frozen trail on her skin.

All of a sudden, she shuddered, and the trance seemed to break. Hastily, she pulled the window close. He watched her disappear to the other side of the room and reappear by the window. She tied its handles together.

Yet after all this, she stayed there, a pale marble statue staring out, with arms hanging lifeless, immovable. After all that, he sat down, on the kitchen floor, and leaned forward on his knees. He closed his eyes and told himself that it was impossible for him to have seen that glint in her eyes, not through all those shadows that danced in the space between them.

Hours seemed to pass and, as the candles burned, the wind died down. Then, he heard a different sound permeate the air: the whirr of blades. It steadily grew stronger and then settled somewhere above their heads. He stood up.

“Cecil,” he said. She had not moved. She did not move.

“Cecilia?” he said again.

She turned to him and said, in a pleading whisper, “– please.”

There were footsteps in the hall as he crossed the kitchen. They were knocking on all the doors, shouting out orders. He could hear the addition of more urgent footsteps, people exclaiming thanks, and sighing in relief. He crossed the living room and stood at the threshold of her room when they knocked at her apartment door. She only stood there, looking at him, expression unflinching.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Outside, they knocked again, louder. She looked away, this time, fixing her gaze on the floor. Her lips began to tremble. Then, he saw her cover her face with her hands and as she cried out a low, muffled sob, he began to understand.

“No,” she said, in a low, soft whisper, “I can’t.”

A biting, cold, bitter fear began to grow in his chest, till he felt as if it were a hollow void, except for where his heart laid beating like a trembling prey. Tangled whorls of anger, then pain, regret, then sorrow passed through him again and again, as he listened to the shouts and footsteps outside the door weaken. Above him, the droning moved away, dissipating into rainfall, that unending flow of curses from the mouth of an angry god. He did not move.

Then, there was nothing left within him but bewilderment – and, as he continued to look at her, wonder. She turned towards him as he walked to her, as he stood before her, searching for her eyes in the flickering gloom. She seemed in a daze as he held her by the shoulders. But she smiled as she saw that look on his face again, as he gently pressed her against the closed window, and then kissed her.

That night, they made love. And among the sheets and tears, quickening heartbeats and the mess of their arms, legs and breath, there was no need for promises. In those moments, they heard nothing of the wind and rain, forgetting about the dark and the flickering candles. Beyond the space of their arms’ reach, their muted laughter, the soft sounds of her incoherent babble, and his quiet listening – they knew nothing.

Then Came the Rain

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 21:59:00 +0800

Part 2 by Pia

She stood by a window, looking out at the pale grey sky of the late afternoon, watching his car drive up to the front of her apartment building. She did not wait for it to stop, but went down to meet him. As she walked out of the lobby, she saw him standing by his car, holding the door open for her.

“Jem, wipe that grin off your face. It’s a great thing being employed and receiving a heck of a salary. I hear about it enough. I know.”

He just laughed as he watched her slide into the passenger seat. He shut the door after.

“Seatbelt, Cecilia,” he said, as he buckled himself in.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, and as he backed up into the street, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” And then he ducked and laughed as her hand swung near his face.

“Don’t do that to me!” she said, forcedly petulant, “Come on.”

“No,” he said in return, with the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips.

She sighed deeply and then laughed. “I am so tired.”

“– I know.”

“– but this, this is wonderful. Hasn’t stopped being wonderful.” She held her hand against the window and traced the movement of the raindrops that had fallen on the glass, as they slid across, leaving a trail of shivering drops. “I used to wonder, you know, as a kid. I wanted to live in England, ‘cause they said it always rained there. But there it’s grey and cold. Here,” she said, scanning the buildings around them, “It’s not so grey and not so cold.”

“Go on,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I used to love storms too. Strong wailing winds. Thunder. Leaking roofs. No electricity. It was exciting. The windows would be blown open. We had to tie the handles together, just so that the wind wouldn’t blow them open. I remember that.”

“I remember the cancelled classes.”

“True, my siblings and I used to play monopoly under candlelight.”

“We had a generator.”

“Oh yes, of course, rich boy in the 90’s,” she laughed.

He smiled in return, saying, “There was a time when the wind that blew in my back yard sounded like a revving engine.”

“Yes, I know that sound. That, all that. I loved it. There was so much… power. Uncontrollable.” She clenched her fists and inhaled through gritted teeth, and repeated, “Power.”

He looked at her and then looked back at the road. “You thought that, as a kid?”

She chuckled under her breath, turned to him, and said, “Are you surprised?”

“No. Not at all,” he answered, then, “You’re not getting tired of all this rain.”

“I don’t think so,” she answered, as the pitter-patter of rain grew stronger and steadied itself at its usual rhythm.

It was raining again, although again would have been an unforgivable understatement. It rained every day. If not in the mornings, it rained in the afternoons, or just after midnight. This rain came gradually, seeping into the ways of life of each person, carving channels into their routines.

At first there were only light showers every other day. Then came the monsoon season, where storms came and went, and came again, with vicious winds and floods – as it did every year in that country, in that city. Yet after the season of storms passed, the rain began to fall every day, though without intent, as it seemed. It was a gentle, tame rain, but it would not leave.

In the mornings, it would fall lightly, as if rays from the sun had taken the form of water – bright lines against the thin morning air. In the afternoons, the showers would be greyer, with drops like small metal coins, cold and bright. At night, the winds accompanied the rain, and they would batter against walls and roofs. The ground was never dry and sunlight rarely shone, except as a diffused white glare through the clouds.

“You’re right, I’m never gonna get tired of this,” said she again, reverting back to the earlier conversation, “Not if it rains everyday for the rest of my life.”

Then she turned and fixed her eyes on him. She caught sight of that wrinkle on his forehead and that slight smile that she knew well – that expression that belonged to her. But then, she saw a familiar landmark take shape in the haze outside his window.

“Oh!” she said, suddenly. She stared at him, mouth open, in disbelief. He didn’t say anything, but grinned to himself, as he parked his car beside the road, up in the hills beside their city. He took an umbrella and helped her out of her side of the car.

“Oh my God,” she said, as they climbed up a staircase, stuck to the side of an empty building, “I haven’t been here since… six, seven years ago.”

There it was: the old viewing deck. It was as she remembered it, although greyer, while the banisters and the metal frame of its pseudo roof were more rust than metal. The city was there, beneath her feet. It was a line of buildings against the sky, veiled from view by slight smog. The trees were there, the heather, and the occasional discolored roof on the side of the hills. They were there, down to where the hills blocked the view of the bleaker areas of the city. Yet that was not what they set their eyes on. While they stood there, silent, the rain took a pause, and let the sun set behind the clouds.

They saw the sun, a pale red disc behind the clouds, a rare sight those past few months. They watched as it churned the lower airs till they took its hue, till the horizon glowed bright copper. The grey city was outlined in light, sharp against its wet gloom. They gazed, quiet, as the color faded, slowly, as if it were being sucked back to its source. Then, it was gone. The world was grey again and they could hear the crickets, although the sound was subdued.

She waited for him to speak, but, as he didn’t, she turned to him, gave him a hug and said, “Well, thank you. I needed that, a break from your work-talk and my graduate professors.”

He did not answer.

Still, she waited, waiting as she had all this time, ready to tolerate his sudden aloofness. She had been waiting for him, sometimes impatiently, as he went back and forth his long-winded effort to get to her. She was not sure if he knew that she waited.

She began to draw back. Yet as he saw the shadows on her face deepen, he hurriedly drew her closer, tightening his arms around her waist, and, for the first time, kissed her. She smiled a smile of relief, as she slowly locked her arms around his neck and let her fingers run through his hair.

The rain began to fall again, the evening rain, bringing with it winds sharper than the day’s. And as they began to feel the rain on their heads, he felt, on his chest and on her lips, her inward laugh.

Then Came the Rain

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 21:57:00 +0800

Part 1 by Pia

He had not slept for days, the day they first met. His eyes were bloodshot, hair disheveled, lips pale, and he walked like he was treading water. He looked as if he had been dragged from his bed to the college cafeteria. He entered, staggering into the crowded hall, trying to remember why he said he wanted to meet there. Of all places, this crowded, poorly ventilated place with a noise level at par with a full cockfight stadium.

He scanned the stalls and found her sitting right in front of the appointed one. She had her back to him and he could see, as he approached, that she was drumming the table with the fingers of her left hand. They had arranged this meeting weeks before and he was late. So he threw his empty bag on the table, pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He leaned his elbows on the greasy vinyl and buried his head between his hands. Yawning at the table, he tried to remember if he had brushed his teeth.

The first thing she ever did was laugh at him. He rested his chin on his hands and looked at her through his fingers. He looked at her with his bloodshot eyes as she reached out a hand and smoothed his dark hair off his forehead.

“Poor boy,” she said as she drew back her hand, “You shouldn’t take drugs during the final weeks, especially before you defend your thesis.”

“Excuse me?” he said, moving his hands to massage his temples, feeling the skin on his forehead tighten.

She didn’t stop laughing. She laughed so heartily, with her hand over her chest and her eyes almost shut, that it was difficult to say if she was still laughing at him or at something else altogether.

“Dude, you look horrible, go to sleep, or let it wear off, or something. Besides, I don’t think we can get anywhere with this project, at the rate you’re going. I swear, don’t take dr –”

“Wait, wait – okay, wait. I’m not –” he said, as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. And she laughed even harder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just kidding. Really. I’m just really tired. But you,” she paused and swallowed, trying to put on a sober expression, “You should really see your face. Your reactions are priceless.” She broke into a grin and shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was incredibly inappropriate. Now, let’s be proper, even if we do know each other’s names.” She held out her hand and said, “Cecil.”

He laughed. “Of course,” he said, smiling as he shook her hand and introduced himself in turn. “James.” He had heard that she was quite the firebrand.

“Well, if it’s any comfort, I haven’t slept for days too.”

“No, not quite.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not really that comforting. You don’t look like it, but I –”

“Look like shit. You probably feel like it too.”

He shook his head and they both laughed. “Thanks a lot.”

“Sure, any time,” she said, and then she stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here. The noise is making me sick.”

He stared up at her, looking as if he was not quite sure whether to thank her again, or to lash out in anger. But he just shrugged and said, “Alright.” He stood up and followed her closely as she walked to the entrance, feeling as they approached, the fresh air breaking the fumes of chicken stock and hot vegetable oil. He was only beginning to wake up.

“Rain!” she said, and her eyes grew bright. She looked up at him, tugged the sleeve of his shirt and said, “I love the rain.”

He smiled to himself and looked out the open doors. The rain had just started falling and raindrops were coming down like tiny sparks of light, flickering here and there, making the dull air shimmer, and adding speckles to the grey concrete. The thought that he had forgotten his umbrella was just beginning to creep into his consciousness when she walked through the doorway. She stretched out her hands and looked up to the sky.

“You actually mean that,” he said, as he walked up to her.

She turned around and answered, “Yes, I do.”

“I’m guessing you love the wind too.”

“Yes,” she said, stretching her arms wide open, “Rain and wind, and all that they give me.” She shut her eyes and breathed in, letting her face light up into a smile of naïveté, of a strange wonderment, of lackadaisical joy.

He moved closer and stood in front of her, and gazed up at the space between the tree boughs and the ground. There, he could see the wind and the leaves that trickled down the stairways of air, spinning round and round, a thousand slight forms under some enchantment. And at that moment, as he gazed in turn, down at that face with shut eyes, he felt a tinge of surprise. He was surprised that instead of thinking that this, she, was strange, he found her rather comforting.

When she opened her eyes, she stepped back, startled that he was suddenly near. “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, “you can just stop me if I start acting all too strange.”

“No, don’t be,” he answered, holding her by her shoulders and turning her towards the direction they should be walking. “I enjoy strange people’s company.” He bit his lip at the lame remark and smirked at himself, while he pushed her out of the rain, to the nearest covered path.

There, she turned, faced him and said, “Liar.” Then she laughed.

They forgot about the project – he, as he looked at the beads of rain water that gathered on the locks of her hair, and she, as she laughed at the bemused and wondering expression that never left his eyes – even when his eyes were cleared of their red streaks and his walk of its stagger.