There is a storm on the horizon. Under his feet, he feels the thunder after lightning rips the darkness asunder. The electric tingling is not the storm chaser desire. He knows she is out there with only a slicker and a camera between her and Mother Nature’s fury. Inside the house, it is dark. Candles flicker but leave an eerie cast to the furniture and walls. The dog has little interest in the weather and blissfully snores in his bed. The cat poses for an All Hallow’s Eve poster when the lightning strikes. He knows he should be worried for her. The thought allows him to forgive his jumping at the sound of the screen door blown closed, even if he cannot bring himself to laugh.
The walls loom closer when the candles wane. He grabs a bottle from the cooler and heads out to the porch. He holds perfectly still as the wind rocks her chair beside him. As suddenly as a lightning strike, he stands and paces along the banister. Worry is the tempest caught in his chest. “Where can she be?” he asks the rain drops falling from the eave.
The shiver convinces him to go back inside, even if he does not know if the chill or fear caused it. When he slumps on the divan, his body seeps in like mercury. His bones are heavy, and the pelting is soothing. It drums him to sleep while the cat paces along the back of the couch, rubbing his head. Like the wheel of a pictograph, images fly before his eyes.
A prom dress from a long ago century, an orchid wrist corsage, two-inch heels, a sprained ankle, carrying her up the stairs when he brought her home an half hour late.
Overalls, covered in soil, muddy gloves, a spade, the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree of all rose bushes, her proud smile.
Angelic glow, carnations and mums, the gossamer veil, her trembling voice and shaking hand, the kiss which could have lasted for hours.
A three-layer coconut cake with 30 candles on it, leaning toward the Joneses, nothing tasted better.
5 a.m. alarm, the draft in the bedroom, her wrapped around him like a toga, eyes dancing in a fantasy behind her lids.
Pearly white truck, two weeks old, fender smashed, her teary-eyed pout.
Huffing and puffing, the strained expression as the doctor said, “Push!” The swell of her breast and the sudden urge for her, now.
Velvety soft picnic blanket, fresh potato salad and chocolate-covered strawberries, not nearly as sweet as her kiss.
Rose fills the morning sky, and a sunbeam warms his cheek. The dog licks his hand where it dangled off the sofa. Scratching the matted back of his head, he opens the door for the pooch just as the car pulls in the driveway. He sinks to his knees. He knows why an officer would come to call.
Welcome to this week’s edition of Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday. Stop by and see who else has something percolating in the romantic coffee pot. You are sure to find a few you already know and meet some terrific new ones.
Once some more of these collect, I will build a page for it. I am officially taking nominations for what to name the page. As always, from comments to poll to page. We all know the drill by now.
Until next time…
What is it which reminds you of someone? Are the best memories of a relationship the perfect ones are the ones which are perfect examples of Mate? Are you a storm chaser?
PS If you voted in the poll before today, JetPack ate your answers. Please vote again. You may vote as many times as necessary to get your answers submitted. Comments for the poll are also open.
(c) Red Dwyer 2012
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