Fat drops of rain fell for hours that morning. It was so sunny and humid that everything took on a metallic sort of smell and the water gathered in stubborn puddles. We looked to the sky for rainbows, but the day was too harsh and bright. We were straddling that awkward fence between a dry, sunny day and a wet, rainy one. What else is there to do on such a Saturday afternoon, but to lie around like bored porch dogs, waiting for something better?

A distinct disappointment hung in the air, coupled with that offensive copper odor. Water steamed off of cars to join the already overwhelming humidity in the air. I was pretending to read a book, watching you sit next to me quietly, complacently. We were suffocating, together, in a foul-smelling sauna. The world seems so ugly when the weather lets you down.

Suddenly a front moved in--the way gods must--and the wind picked up and the trees swayed. Clouds buried the harshest of the sun's rays and the temperature bowed to change. The humidity dissipated, a form of magic that only weathermen and prophets understand. Thunder clapped, lightning lit the sky and the downpour began.

Rocking slightly on the porch swing, we closed our eyes and inhaled the storm. It smelled of a refreshing sweetness--more earthy and green than before. We shared a sigh that became an embrace, your arms under mine and my head on your chest. The drumming of raindrops on the roof matched your heartbeat, quickening when the storm's intensity picked up. I moved to your lap. Grazing your skin lightly with my nose, breathing you and the rain and everything in at once. A heavier sigh passed from my lips and gave me away; your body, a finely tuned barometer, responded.

Your hands on me then, gentle like the breeze but constant like the patter of drops falling effortlessly from the sky. My mouth on you then, a warm, wet trail across your skin for the cool air to caress. Delicate kisses turned urgent, soft hands grew hungry. The wind picked up in gusts, the windchimes complained in a sing-song. The porch swing creaked--a low, steady reminder of our combined weight. You moved under me, catlike, and swept me into your arms without notice. We giggled together, as you stepped through the back door. We kissed as the door slammed shut, moving awkwardly as one through the kitchen and hallway to our bed.

I gasped, sheets cool to the touch. The entire room was deliciously airy and fresh, as if we'd never slept there angry or upset. The sheer white curtains danced away from the window, a picture of chaos and grace. And you, on me in such a way that I was at once calm and storm. A fine mist pushed its way through the window screens; it was raining in our bedroom. The moisture beaded on your skin in an intoxicating mixture of sweat and rain and sex as you moved, all at once with me, around me, above me, and inside me. You tasted like a wonderful breath of fresh air.

Love, and lust thick as fog, clouded our afternoon with unwavering persistance. Time and again we came, steady, pulsing, as the storm outside. The thunder rolled in the background as I held you to me, breasts heaving, waiting for the moment to pass. Streaks of lightning kissed the sky as waves of pleasure electrified our skin. And so, we made sweet love with the weather, in the weather, worshipping each other and the rain gods and the nature of it all.

There is something so intimately beautiful about an afternoon thunderstorm--something so passionate and raw about an immediate, aching need that swells until it erupts in sweet release.

I stood on the back porch watching
rain drip down seamless gutters
and shuttered to think,
this shouldn't be happening

Kate was there as always, so naturally
unaware of her own surroundings;
so intune to her own self and
so good at tuning me out.

In the distance the sky lit up with
lightning, violet and violent,
and I kept my ears open
waiting on the thunder.

The storm was maybe twenty miles away.
She was only inches.
But they both took hours
to get to me.

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