commonplace | First Rain

The first rain reminds me
Of the rising summer dust.
-Yehuda Amichai

The storm rode in fast and hard as desert raiders, and Joseph was soaked through by the time he made it back to Annie’s trailer. The cookfire was nothing but an ash-dark puddle, and he could see that Annie had pulled her loom down from the tree. He paused, considering throwing a tarp over his bike, but it was too late to make a difference.

Lightning crashed across the sky as he opened the door and all but dove inside.

“Stop!” Annie yelled, and he froze in place. A towel landed across his head and shoulders, and he gratefully began drying his hair.

“All the damp things stay by the door,” she told him, but there was a hint of laughter in her voice. “The wool would recover, but I’d rather not have to deal with it.”

Joseph kicked one boot off and then the other, followed by his jeans and his dripping shirt. He checked the hand-knit socks she’d given him – his boots had kept them dry, somehow.

Outside, thunder cracked directly overhead and lightning flashed beyond the camper’s small windows as Joseph presented himself for inspection.

“Dry enough,” she told him, and smiled. She was knitting, of course, on the bed with a light blanket tossed across her lap. Joseph hesitated only a minute before joining her, curling up beside her. He was getting used to the feeling of skin on skin, and while he still shuddered at an unexpected touch, it no longer unnerved him. He knew Annie didn’t expect anything to follow.

It was enough.

Mirrored from Jack-a-dreams.