As much as I love the sun and how it warms everything on terra firma, I have also developed a certain fondness for the rains. Not the mud or the brown swirls gurgling down the open manhole in the middle of the road that nearly swallowed a man the other day. Not the damp clothes, mud-spattered shoes and stockings and people opening or shutting their dripping umbrellas in your face and drenching you in bits and leaving you soggy. Definitely not the flash floods on primetime news TV and the body-count constantly being flashed on the red bar at the bottom of the screen. No, I want none of those. I live for the edited rains. The romantic version you could say. Something similar to the rain scene at the end of the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral. Or that rain scene in Chasing Amy when Holden finally declared his love for Amy and she fired back with a stream of “f**k yous” my ears literally burned – but just when you thought it was kaput, their lips sought each other, tongues engaged in a passionately mad duel, you just knew they had a good thing going on. At least for a while. I like the drama of the sudden demise of the late afternoon sun turning the gallery of cotton blue hues into a uniform shade of grayish darkness, the swirls of dry leaves and bits of paper on the streets, the uncontainable gust of wind that disguises itself as tame until it flies madly through your hair leaving a painfully tangled nest on your head.
Not something an average lovemaking can claim for itself.
Yes, you’ve spotted it, haven’t you?
The Romantic version.