A different Kind of Lightening

It rained in the night. I could hear the soft pattering of it on the
window. Summer rain. I lay awake and thought of how the street would
look all wet. A slick neon shine on the pavement. A moving glimmer in
the gutters. I was hoping for a storm. A distance rumble of thunder or
flash of supernatural brightness to momentarily light up the room. I
shifted under the sheet. Sleepless again, I slipped off my pyjamas and
stuck my foot out of the bed to cool down. It had been such a hot July,
the dry air heavy with electrical tension. You always loved a storm.
Said it was exciting. .Said you liked to run through the rain hoping
that the lightning might strike you. You laughed when you said it, took
a mouthful of wine. I could still taste it in your mouth when you
kissed me. It started then. At that moment. You in my room. A different
kind of lightening.

I poured you another and you lit a cigarette.

'Let's have some music.' Your voice was soft when you said it. Your
hands were warm on mine.

'What would you like to...?'

'Well...' You were smiling. Your teeth where sharp like a cat's.

I glanced at the CDs, chose some loose Jazz. It drifted through the air
like smoke and I leant over to kiss you, feeling like Montgomery Clift.
You pulled away.

'Not yet. In a while. Just let me finish this.' You took a drag on
your cigarette.

I think there was lightening then. A different kind of
lightening.

The evening darkened. I looked past you through the window, at the
clouds, bruise coloured and full of rain. The breeze that blew in made
me shiver.

'I think we should....I mean. I'd like to...'

You were watching me closely all the time I was speaking, running a
finger round the rim of your glass.

'Why don't you close the window. It'll be dark soon and I think a
storm's on the way.'

Ella Fitzgerald was singing. A car passed by and I could hear someone
laughing at the end of the street. I cleared my throat.

'I want to...I mean...what's really going on?'

'Well, I...

You kissed me, then. A soft teasing touch if your lips. Smoky. A
bitterness of nicotine.

'C'mon.'

I heard the thunder rumbling as you led me to the bed. Unbuttoning my
antique shirt, your hand moving over my skin. My breath was ragged.
You, pulling back the sheet then unbuttoning my pants.

'Yeah.'

The room lit up, bright. A fake daylight. Your body was smooth, your
friction, exquisite.

'Yeah.'

I closed my eyes against the flicker-flash of lightening, the storm
rolling overhead. And music. Some thirties night-club number. You hands
were warm on me, my back and thighs.

'Yeah'

It felt good. Silver screen perfect. The moist heat of your hands on my
stomach then moving lower. The spark in the storm was blue-tinged. A
different kind lightening.

Afterwards, you smoked another cigarette and finished the wine. The
salt of you was still on my tongue.

'Can we...?

'Well, I....

The sky was clear in the morning. A bright summer blue. You stood at
the door, smiling in that unreadable way of yours.

'I like rough weather.'

Said you didn't want coffee.

I've never slept well. When the weather's warm I lie awake, hold
imaginary conversations with people I've not seen for years. Like you.
And imagine you were here again. I wait for the storm to come again and
open my window, waiting for the lightening to strike. Not the yellow
lightening of an urban storm. No. The blue white kind. The kind that
burns cold and leaves a mark. A different kind of lightening.