Is there really such a thing?
How would such a phenomenon be judged, I wonder? Is there a panel of dieties, both earthbound and heaven kissed, or a jury of frightened little children and their hassled parents?
Would it be gaged by the intensity of the flash of lightening or the rumble of the mighty thunder, or by the size and density rain drops fallen? Does it need to involve sand or snow, with extra point for both?
These are the things we'd idly consider, the things we'd wonder about while huddles in our bed and hidden under the covers. Sometimes you laughed about my 'silly' fear of storms, kissing my nose and calling me a scardey cat when I was quite sure that no one called each other that anymore. I just thought it was what made you special - that and the million other ways, of course. Like the way that the left side of your mouth curled up just a little more than the right side, giving you a perpetually smug grin; the way your eyes darkened with mischief whenever your brother came to town; the dimple in your cheek that came out only when you'd done something foolish and realized it without wanting to admit it; the way the your hand felt as you slid it around my waist, pulling me into a warm embrace from behind always when I least expected it; the way the shadows of the raindrops danced along your bare skin, the street lamp illuminating them and making them nearly nearly mesh with the shadows of my thin white curtains.
Is there such a thing as a perfect storm? I had asked, laying on my side and looking down at you, tracing the patterns on your skin lightly with the tip of my finger, your hands behind your head and your eyes closed blissfully.
Maybe all storms are actually perfect, you replied sleepily, just a moment before a single peal of thunder seemingly ripped through the sky, making me jump and turn my head into the pillows.
You laughed at me, but I didn't feel mocked. You kissed my neck, my shoulder, down to my wrist, coaxing me out of the pillows a moment later, laying me on my back. You whispered to me then, soothing the worry from my forehead, softly laughing about how startled I looked.
How would such a phenomenon be judged, I wonder? Is there a panel of dieties, both earthbound and heaven kissed, or a jury of frightened little children and their hassled parents?
Would it be gaged by the intensity of the flash of lightening or the rumble of the mighty thunder, or by the size and density rain drops fallen? Does it need to involve sand or snow, with extra point for both?
These are the things we'd idly consider, the things we'd wonder about while huddles in our bed and hidden under the covers. Sometimes you laughed about my 'silly' fear of storms, kissing my nose and calling me a scardey cat when I was quite sure that no one called each other that anymore. I just thought it was what made you special - that and the million other ways, of course. Like the way that the left side of your mouth curled up just a little more than the right side, giving you a perpetually smug grin; the way your eyes darkened with mischief whenever your brother came to town; the dimple in your cheek that came out only when you'd done something foolish and realized it without wanting to admit it; the way the your hand felt as you slid it around my waist, pulling me into a warm embrace from behind always when I least expected it; the way the shadows of the raindrops danced along your bare skin, the street lamp illuminating them and making them nearly nearly mesh with the shadows of my thin white curtains.
Is there such a thing as a perfect storm? I had asked, laying on my side and looking down at you, tracing the patterns on your skin lightly with the tip of my finger, your hands behind your head and your eyes closed blissfully.
Maybe all storms are actually perfect, you replied sleepily, just a moment before a single peal of thunder seemingly ripped through the sky, making me jump and turn my head into the pillows.
You laughed at me, but I didn't feel mocked. You kissed my neck, my shoulder, down to my wrist, coaxing me out of the pillows a moment later, laying me on my back. You whispered to me then, soothing the worry from my forehead, softly laughing about how startled I looked.
I smiled sheepishly, but you just kissed my cheek.
You know, I think it's funny, you whispered, taking my hand and opening it to kiss my palm. I made a noise, studying your face intently, memorizing the way you looked just then, like a song I only knew half the lyrics to.
What's funny, you continued, is the reality that you and I are completely opposite sometimes. I love thunder storms and you're afraid of them.
You kissed the tip of my little finger and bit it, making me laugh as I tried to pull my hand away, but you held on tight.
You know, I think it's funny, you whispered, taking my hand and opening it to kiss my palm. I made a noise, studying your face intently, memorizing the way you looked just then, like a song I only knew half the lyrics to.
What's funny, you continued, is the reality that you and I are completely opposite sometimes. I love thunder storms and you're afraid of them.
You kissed the tip of my little finger and bit it, making me laugh as I tried to pull my hand away, but you held on tight.
At that moment, alarm bells should have been ringing in my head. I should have really listened to what you were saying, not just your words and how they sounded, but to the meaning behind them.
You kissed my other fingers, my shoulder again, then propped yourself up on one arm and leaned over me, smiling playfully.
I felt so much love for you at that very moment that I thought my heart was literally going to need to expand to fit it all.
You kissed me deeply, brushing your lips along my neck and jaw.
That night stands out in memory because it was the night you taught me it was ok to be afraid, but not to let it stop you from doing what you really want to do. The thunder would come, but I'd hardly notice it. You kept my mind off trivial things like that.
Our affair soon ended, as I knew it would but hoped it wouldn't. Things were much too good to last.
As soon as the first sign of trouble arose, you were just gone.
No sad goodbyes or bitter memories to taint what we had.
All that remains are shattered fragments of of a mosaic that was us.
All that remains are shattered fragments of of a mosaic that was us.
The perfect storm:
coming on suddenly at full force with no warning signs and no anticipation. Pulling out all the stops, being loud, bold, frightening and fascinating, all at the same time, and ending on a bolt of lightening so shocking that it quiets the earth, stilling the angry seas and the skies, making the wind catch it's breath.
We had the perfect storm.
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