the rains, like an unappeasable curse, lasted for four years, eleven months, and two days in gabo's macondo. a matriarch, watching from her sopped window the cortege of a friend trudging along the mucky street below, its pavement long washed out by rains, had a vision. she now awaits the ceasing of the rains before she, herself, will die.
around here, it had been raining since weekend. (relax, no deathly premonitions here.) but the indolent ways of the rain have insinuated into me. lately, i found it rich just to laze in bed, alone, than be somewhere else. even with the strange man.
never comfortable in my building, the strange man dropped by unannounced this afternoon. peeling off his drenched street clothes, he slipped into one of my track pants. then sockless, he leaped into my bed, his soles stung by the dampness of the uncarpeted parquet. i'm not too hot, i told him, when he started touching me. he faded into sleep like a hungry child.
sleeping, shakespeare in hamlet said, that's all dying is. annoyed by this man making strange sounds while asleep, i don't know, but something, a selfish resolve washed over me. i would not let this man go. to his dreams. to anywhere but here with me.
i touched him and watched him rise, amazed, still, at this resurrection. he woke up and licked and kissed my face until our faces were all sodden. the floor of my apartment now shagged by our moans.
