Rain. Drizzling down. Sluicing through pipes and gutters. Seething, crawling through the deathly-quiet desert. Sloshing off the tops of the palm trees. Desperado crickets chirping from the safety of dryness. An out-of-rhythm clock tick without the tock coming from what? - The light on the telephone pole. This brings the buzz of the power lines a little closer, just a little. The whorsh of cars sailing down the unseen street in the distance. The minute tickle-tackle of the neighboring gravel parking lot settling. A few nomadic pebbles and twigs migrating down various rivulets.
The lamp on the telephone pole borrowed from the memory of the boxy lights on the cafetorium in grade-school, only black instead of brown. The rectangle of light cast out of it is obscenely white; normally only illuminating the garbage bin. And moths, bats, and night-hawks. The clouds don't dominate the sky completely; in the distance are clusters of stars, suspended raindrops of light with their round edges sharpened, like burrs caught on the satin fabric of the atrous night. Palm trees. Pla-Doh rolled too long and used as trunks topped with giant pine-cones for beards, standing under the disheveled umbrellas of scruffy unkempt fronds.
The dust quelled, its specter nonetheless hangs in the air. The baked silicone smell contrasted with the sharp savory scent of creosote. The creosote nearly wreaking, like a collage of cacti, weeds, pine, patchouli, and Satan's Listerine. The palm trees odor is that of gritty pulp-wood and the fragrance they wear is the closest smell to grass out here.
The triple-digit air of the day warms the rain of the night. It loses its refreshing feel, and instead feels like a shower before work. Regardless of the sparse buildings and ample mountains, infinity crowds around. It gains strength from the darkness like Superman gains strength from the sunlight.
The vestige of garlic bread and fettuccine alfredo in our mouths.
Music. An idling engine, like quickened waves, high and low. The rain clatters clumsily over the corrugated steel top of the car-port. The popping, grinding, puffing of the A/C units. The fellow tenants oblivious in their apartments, distracted by canned laughter and inaudible dialog. Ever the sluicing of the rain in the gutters.
The apartments a cretaceous backdrop, teal trim pealing. Mini-blinds in all the windows, light in only some. Tawny metal framing the shadows that slip out: knick-knacks, cats, refrigerators. The dirt on the glass guides the journey of the run-off. The porch light is out-shined by the universal complex light, it in its cake shaped plastic casing on a twisted aluminum arm. The case has a jagged hole, seemingly from the same hulking moving-truck that bent the metal. The landscaping lights of the complex next-door cast up a ghostly mist, like dream scenes in old movies. The yellow safety pole by the back door, chunky cement pouring out of its iron tube, is slanted from having done its job. At bumper height, metal glints through – careless drivers! The cantankerous a/c unit has metal peeling away from a sharp slashing dent near its base. Somehow something slipped past its protector. It rests on unleveled concrete, a small tortilla chip shaped wedge slanting up. The rest of the porch's square slopes down. The car port matches the domicile's drab paint. Its shape is even more generic and forgettable. A blue stuffed bunny lies under the padlocked cabinets, forgotten.
The posts smell of stale wood and sun diluted chemicals. The smell of mold and mildew is virtually unrecognized. Even the metal smells dryer, so dry the rain can't generate rust.
Plip-plopping puddles. A Song. Pinging water pelting metal poles. The myriads of angels whispering sound of the rain.
Headlights. Stationary. Polygonal, lopsided fat diamond shapes delivering a soft, comfortable flavescent spotlight. The droplets carve through the air and cut the light into red, orange, yellow. Moist match flames without the sticks. The manufactured black color of the car. Tall, round, and compact like a dough ball. Cute, like someone else's puppy – a breed you'd never want to see as an adult.
Exhaust and sooty oil from repaired cars climb up the ladder of precipitation. They slip warily on its wet rungs.
Bodies swaying.
The warm rain tastes like a broth made of dust.
Flip-flop sandals plopping sloppy wet. The slide shuffle of the feet next to them. Swishing rain. A Song.
The blacktop is uniform in color despite the texture. The puddles that would be unavoidable temptations to children's feet if they weren't in bed are instead percussion to dancing feet.
Closer than the smell of cars is the scent of cotton, spent detergent, straining softener, and denim. The scent is warm—as if it were fresh from the dryer.
The rain is amniotic fluid to a baby. Scattered grain to a fertile field. The cushion of the shoes offers moral support. A neck supports a thick chain that slinks as the bodies sway. A ring on a finger, pressed to the back of the neck. The closest thing to cold. Earrings scratch his face, stubble scratches hers. He's nervous, afraid because he can't watch her feet. He's rebellious: who cares if we look silly! Who's gonna see us?
A wet wisp of her hair slips into his mouth when she repositions her head on his chest.
Rain gushing off their heads. The sandy voice of Rod Stewart croons his rendition of “A Kiss to Build a Dream On”. The air that's pushed out with a smile wafts up to his ear. Their breathing is steady, synchronized. Their shoes squelch like soap on a bathing body. Their clothes slurp on them like a tongue on ice cream. A moist whisper is emitted from skin being caressed. The rain pips off their arms, clips on their ears. His chain zigs from time to time, sounding like a zipper.
She is short with full round inviting curves,cartoon-round emerald eyes, a petite nose, and lips that pay homage to Raphael's cherubs. He feels her fragility as he pulls her warmth closer to him. She has a wondering look in her eyes: Is he the one? Her adorable feet are exposed in the pink flip-flops. Toes huddled together like puppies snuffling at the door while Master matches key to lock. The wet fabric of their clothing acts like adhesive urging them to bond closer still, accentuating feminine lines and masculine contours. The round stone of the engagement ring is in a vintage setting. It flashes between a shimmering glint and a determined shine, a promise versus an oath. Her earrings are cheap fake gemstones. Her mascara is running, but not from tears. Her head beneath his nose has that shampooed smell that only a girl can manage. A scent that every man fantasizes about. Her skin makes him hungry with its apple-pear lotion coating.
Their skin is warmer than the air, cooler than the rain. He uses her goosebumps as an excuse to rub her body with his hands. Their knees rub each others thighs, enticing. Her eyelashes tickle his cheek as she blinks away the rain. Finally, when their eyes lock, they're too close for their lips not to brush. His hands slide up to the back of her head pulling her in, then down her arms to her elbows stopping the dance. This kiss is special. It is a solid foundation. Hopes will rest on it. Dreams will be built on it.
