Posted by: Patrice Fitzgerald | February 23, 2009

Kissing in the Rain

I worked for the government then, in one of the dull bureaucratic offices full of beige walls and grey metal desks.  I was standing in the lobby, later than I usually stayed.  Rain poured down the large windows as we waited before dashing through the wetness to our cars or the bus stop.  

Nobody was in a hurry to go out in that.

As I stood there, making small talk with another lawyer from my office, and an older woman, black, who worked in another area, we noticed a couple outside.  They were standing against the side of a building, completely drenched.  Rain poured over them, and her long dark hair was dripping.  He leaned in and gave her a fully body, total arm-wrapping, sweet and sour kiss — like a sax player wailing into his high notes.  

It was beautiful.

The three of us, talking, just stopped and stared.

“Damn,” said my friend.

“Wow,” I said.

“I can’t even get a kiss like that sittin’ inside on a warm sofa,” said the third woman.  “How’s she gettin’ that kinda kissin’ standing out in the rain?”

It was a marvel to behold.  I remember watching that kiss, the envy steaming off us like the damp when the sun comes out.

Today my husband and I went to the beach in the rain and walked in the mist along clumpy sand and foamy water.  We picked up whelk shells and odd-colored stones.  My hair got wet, whipping into my face.  He leaned into me, the bill of his hat protecting me from the rain, and I got a hot sax kiss of my own, steaming under the sunbeams of his love.

Damn.

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