after the rain

The rain had fallen all day and all night, again and again, a hummed melody of taps, sighs, faraway and next-door rumbles. By the time morning arrived on the tenth day, there was relief when the people of the town found the sky paused and bleached in shades of butter cream, whipped strawberry, and lilac fields, sunlight snuggling into dew and puddles, the air clean and hopeful. Everyone opened windows, donned smiles, placed soggy welcome mats in sunny locations to pull away moisture and give the gift of perfect normalcy once again.

It is on this day, after feeling so trapped, that she decides to take a walk. She steps out, feet bare, knowing that shoes would pose a cleaning hazard with the soil so moist and miniature ponds forming in shallow impressions every couple of yards. She lives on the edge of town, among tall flowers, swaying tress, and prairie grass that goes on for miles, her own golden ocean. She has missed her daily walks, so alone, yet so surrounded by life, a serene voyage into awe.

The birds are noisy, a summer laughter in their songs, and the wind is doing a sway that feels like slow lemonade sips. She walks along, mud painting socks onto her feet, water splashing here and there against her ankles, stray grass and wildness brushing her calves, and occasionally inner thighs. Bugs buzz against her cheeks and shoulders, which she casually brushes away, as she savors the sun's massage on her crown, her neck, her arms, through the back of her dress.

She has been walking a few minutes when she hears a loud rustle, and muffled whispers even - perhaps - though she can't be certain. The sounds are coming from near the creek, a few feet to her right, through a bundle of brush. She is not the type to peek through curtains or listen for strings of information hanging on the edges of conversation. She keeps to herself and lets others live their own lives. But, this is her property after all, she surely has the right, and responsibility, to investigate.

She moves slowly, a snake weaving around and over and through, as quietly as the branches, leafs, crackled grass will allow. She reaches the edge of the clearing, the golden rays of the grass continuing their demure camouflage, and sees them.

Two men, one who has a reputation among both men and women, and the other she knows too well. It was only last night that his lips were to hers, and his whispers collided with her earlobes, and his hardness made her climax. She covers her hand to her mouth, as if it will prevent all sound and reaction from considering a birth into the space between them and her. She can't believe what she is seeing, the audacity, the shame.

Their hands have a strength and certainty, and when he pulls himself out and moves in again, fierceness and passion so woven together that one seems to be the other. Yet, they are laughing and saying things, and all she sees suddenly are blurs and anger and aches in her stomach and abandonment. Time stands on its tipee-toes and holds very, very still for her. How long, she isn't certain.

And when the distant clocks begin ticking again, she is dazed and can't seem to pull herself away. As her eyes dry, she watches closely. The muscles in his bottom rippling, the skin moving in from the pressure of his fingers, the sweat on his forehead, the hair displaced and breezy, the pleasure puddling into his features and lines. The sounds they are making are wild, animals on a sudden encounter. She pretends she doesn't know him, imagines him to be a boy from the next town over. Their wild fuck begins looking like a play, a movie, created with one front row seat, and it is hers.

How it is that the moisture and tension has began building between her legs, she doesn't know. He has disrespected her. She should yell or throw something or look at him with eyes of disdain. Instead, in this moment after time has caught back up with her, she raises her skirt, one hand against her clitoris, and the other slipping inward. As she rubs and humps, they continue their plunge of in and out, in and out, grunting and gasping.

She is very close to her release when the mud beneath her feet suddenly feels like yanked silk, and her body does a slow collapse backward, the goopy soil forming a flowing stream downward, to the creek, to them, to him.

It is only a matter of seconds that she is there, a tangle of half naked embarrassment, panties around ankles, dress twisted up, brown coating her pale skin and clumping into her hair. When the hush of being caught fades into realization, she wonders if they also see: Wet. I can take you both. You weren't love anyway. You asshole. Now. Please. Please.

She rolls over to her belly, soft bundles of flesh and tight entrance poised toward the brightening
sky, and knows that they do see, and that her body will be delighted and raw with their knowledge long after this collision of want.