You awake to a driving rain. It takes you several seconds to force your mind to capture the situation. Costa Rica. Deep in the no-man's land of a virginal jungle. A flash of lightening. White light exploded in every inch of the universe. Crashing thunder shakes the trees. Your hammock sways violently in the howling wind.
Lightning and driving rain. Rare in the green cocoon that you have called home for the last four months. Lightening is a thing of the distant latitudes. This kind of crashing lightening is almost unheard of. And the rain. Not that rain is rare. On the contrary. You live in rain. Every day it drifts down like soupy ether. You struggle to see the top of the three-canopy jungle. Driving rain stings your eyes and you look back toward your hammock. Normally the complex labyrinth of trees, vines, and bromeliads repels all attackers. Only the fine mist can make it through the emerald fabric.
But today, for some reason, the pattern doesn't hold. The lightening flashes and the thunder booms. You turn your face into the hammock and clutch the cords, holding on for life. You hold out against the storm for what seems forever. Searing bursts of light. Driving rain. Crashing thunder. You hold on tighter still.
Suddenly the point of a spear of noise pricks your dulling senses. You strain to filter this new sound from all the background blaring that envelops you. At first you think that it must be the sound of the creek at the foot of the hill. Trapped in a narrow gorge, it swells with the rain and grows louder by the minute. But as you lean your mind toward the creek another sound comes into focus. Footsteps.
You turn abruptly and find him standing there. Looking down at you. You are shocked at first. He looks as tall as a mountain. You look up at him as you are lying in your hammock. His face is framed by streaks of lightening.
This man. So distant. So involved in the project. This man. So immune. You are surprised that he has come to pay you such devout attention. You are surprised he even acknowledges your existence. You wonder to yourself, "do you call a frigid man frigid? Or is there some other word if it's a man?" But as you look up at him he seems to be genuinely concerned.
"Are you okay?" he shouts against the storm.
His eyes. There are boring through you. Eyes the color of pewter. Never wavering. But now, for the first time, filled with feeling. It occurs to you that he might be genuinely worried about you. As you fill yourself with his eyes it suddenly occurs to you that the rain has soaked you shirt. The flimsy material clings to your naked clammy skin. For a moment you feel ... vulnerable. Embarrassed. You can feel your nipples grow beneath the shear wet fabric. You tell yourself that it's only the cold. But you track his eyes for one more moment. You wonder if he notices your round hard nipples, reaching out for freedom from the shear wet fabric.
But this moment passes and you answer him. "I'm okay." You lie.
You watch him watch you for another moment. You will your nipples down. But they grow harder still. And reach out to him. It's just the cold. Nothing more.
Then you reassure him again him that you are okay. Another minute passes and the rain begins to slacken. You are drawn to his eyes. Strong eyes. Maybe they aren't pewter. It's Levis. His eyes are the color of faded denim. Transparent eyes. With that your eyes drop down and brush across the faded Levis cutoffs that he wears. Against your will they roam along the seams that run down his legs. Between his legs. The seams are worn. And tight. Your heart is beating. Just a little faster. You are drawn back to his eyes. Are his eyes really searching yours?
"Pretty bad storm," he says. You watch him for another moment. It appears that he could actually be human. Or at least humanoid. You continue to watch him as he looks down upon you. You can see just the hint of a smile forming on his face. It occurs to you that he is a beautiful man. When he smiles. The moment hangs in balance. He continues to watch you. His face warm. Kind. Considerate.
You watch him but are stone silent. Your eyes track across his lips and you trace the outline of his cheek with your eyes. He watches you for another moment. But you do not answer. Then he turns slowly back toward the forest. Frozen for a moment you race to fling an answer in his direction. Words. Any words. Quickly. "Are you okay?" you ask. And feel a little lame.
Four months together. The deepest conversation you have had to date. He's all business. All the project. Finding that new serum. Making the project a success.