A Walk in the Rain
By Kay Luff
Early on a Saturday morning I sit on the edge of our bed flicking sleep out of the corner of my eyes. You continue to sleep. A photo frame you gave me for my birthday blocks the clock radio on my bedside cabinet. The words ‘I love you’ are inscribed along its bottom edge. You placed that image of us at your thirtieth birthday dressed as the Village People. We sang ‘YMCA’ at the top of our voices until someone mentioned the words “sexual orientation”. You lost your temper.
Outside our window is the place we met. Standing on the street corner you offered me the shelter of your umbrella. Now it leans on the inside of our front door. My copy of “Jonathan Livingstone Seagull” rests on your side of the bed. You use it as a coaster. Turning over you breathe heavily the way you say girls often do.
On our trip to Bali I bought a bunch of wooden frangipani flowers. In the middle of our dining table they don’t look over-priced. More importantly I couldn’t resist the charms of those market women. Ignoring the leather boat shoes you discovered in an exquisite boutique store I pull on my well worn basketball boots. And I take a walk in the rain.