Slightly older fiction

In The Blue

by Suzan Abrams

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.