I sat at the window watching the clouds pour sheets of water onto the ground, forming rivers along the low parts of my yard. The voice on the other end of the phone did nothing to help my melancholy mood. The summer rain always depressed me. I didn't know why. It just seemed to darken my day and make me moody and gray. I realized that he was talking, but I was too busy frowning at the drops rolling down my sliding glass doors to pay attention.
"Are you listening?" he asked, clearly annoyed at my lack of enthusiasm for the subject that he had been rambling on about.
"No. Sorry. You know how I get when it rains."
My mood was dark and brooding. He should be used to it by now.
Stacy has known me for twenty years and it seems he only calls me on the rainy days. We met through his former girlfriend one night. I had been out for a night on the town with her and Stacy was the one who drove us around from bar to bar, watching us clean out our wallets on Jose Cuervo and Jell-O shots. He and I were instantly attracted to one another and I always got the tingly knots in my stomach whenever he was around. I once chalked it up to infatuation and vowed to forget it all together, but we had hit it off that night and became friends, even if things between us have been strained with sexual tension, from that night on.
He'd eventually broken up with her and still he called. Mostly on the rainy days, to cheer me up and help me cope with the black cloudiness that would invade my brain when the rain falls. There were times when I wished he was with me, making me forget about the rain; forget about the dark fog that surrounded my mood.
"Why don't I come over there? It sounds like you need someone," he offered; not in the least a stranger to what these days did to me.
I agreed and hung up the phone, waiting for my friend to come and try to cheer me up, though I knew it would be to no avail. This wasn't the first time he'd tried and failed to bring a smile to my face. I fixed coffee in the meantime and sipped at the hot liquid while straightening the house, hoping he wouldn't notice all the things I had failed to clean or fix during the downpour that was lasting for what seemed like weeks. When he pulled into the driveway not twenty minutes later, I stood at the door, hand on the knob, waiting for him to ring the doorbell.
He didn't get the chance to do that. I had opened the door wide for him before he'd even opened the door to his dodge 4x4 all the way.
"Man, look at the frown on your pretty face, Sylvia."
He grinned as he made his way to the porch.
I took a moment, as I always did, to appreciate the sight of him making his way to me in a wet, plain, yellow tee shirt and the light blue, wet, denim jeans that accentuated every single curvaceous inch of him.
"Jesus, Stacy. It's fifteen steps to my door and you're soaked," I said.
"Well, it's raining cats and dogs. What did you expect?" he chuckled.
"You didn't have to come here."
I blushed, thanking God silently for his friendship and caring.
"Sure I did."
We stood there for a second or two, feeling each other with our eyes and feasting on the flesh we hadn't ever dared to explore in the twenty years we had been friendly with each other. I showed him in and gave him a towel to dry himself as best he could, but he refused it, taking my hand and pulling me toward the sliding glass doors I had been sulking at not moments before.
"Why are we doing this?" he wondered, his head tilting to the side slightly in question.
"Doing what?" I asked, confused, but not so much, at his question.
"Avoiding each other; do you know that I fantasize about fucking you in the rain?"
The question threw me off guard and I didn't know how to answer. He knew how I plunged into depression when the rains came. Why in the world would he want me in that way?
