The sky opened up, and she screamed. I watched her spin on soaking grass patches and kneel- legs spread, palms up- and throw her head back with a rush of blood and a trapped sort of freedom. I sat on the pavement, freezing and in love with her, while she thrashed her maniac limbs and wore herself out.
She was tired before it started raining and before she started dancing. I could feel the starving chloroplasts beneath her skin stretching out in relief. She kicked her legs up over and over, tossed her hair, and took up a sway while the rain fell through her, undisturbed. Her carelessness made her fundamentally romantic to watch, shoulders shrugging while her hands grooved the air.
There was an awkward uncertainty to how long this would go on for. She was lost in the motion, could stay lost for hours. It was entirely up to the storm. There was nowhere for us to go because there was nowhere for us to be.
When the downpour was reduced to mist, she grabbed handfuls of clouds and brought them to me. Finally still, she stood and stared like I was the oddest creature she had ever not expected. I looked up at her, at the makings of sun around her face. Her jaw was sharp and thin, and she liked it that way. The hair drifting up in the steam across her forehead was the unkempt mane of a lioness. Her eyes cast with the fierceness, but none of the dryness, oases to a body that was all sand and freckles. She gestured to the ground around me.
This puddle is so big, a fish could live in it.
I nodded, and we went inside.
PLUTO BLOOMING 