The World When It Rains
They did not move. They pretended
that things were beyond their doors or outside their windows. They had led
themselves to believe that the rain was deadly, that it would cart them away
somewhere undesirable. So, they acted like their bones were feathers, that
their skin was paper, that they were fake bodies.
Occasionally he would run a finger
down her naked back or play with a few strands of her hair. She would hum a
song and they would be bathed in dark blue air that pushed through the blinds.
It was beautiful to be so small. It
was enough to be entirely insignificant. They had no intentions of ending this.
After a while, they would play a game and try to keep track of all the
raindrops that fell. They dared not to make too much noise; to disrupt the
sleeping room would be ruining what they had worked so hard for. They slept off
and on. She would want to kiss when she would wake up; she got her wish every
time.
It was like this for a while. The
feathered bodies, their blood tired enough to do what it had to do, but nothing
more. Time lost definition and substance. The rain - deadly, remember now -
fell and orchestrated its puddles, its streams, filled potholes to make lakes,
blurred the sight of ghosts. For miles, all lay still. The girl would hum, the
boy would trace fantasy shapes on her flesh. Their chairs and pictures gathered
dust but that would not alter much. The house became nothing and everything.
It was lovely to not be memorable.
It was nice to fall victim to the raining world.
Kevin Richard White
Kevin
Richard White is the author of the novels The Face Of A Monster and Patch Of
Sunlight. His work has been previously published by Akashic Books, Sundog Lit,
Tahoe Writers Works, Crack The Spine, Dime Show Review, Lunch Ticket, Aji
Magazine, Ghost Parachute and Cactus Heart Press among others. He lives in
Pennsylvania.
Tags:
Short Fiction