I miss thunderstorms. Like suddenly from the past few days. I have always loved thunderstorms; the darkness, the mist, the smell of early rain drops, the sound of leaves hustling through wind, window panels making weird little noises, everything about thunderstorm is so beautiful in my mind. The bolts of lightening, a streak of light illuminating the night sky, California is sunny and beautiful and my present residence but I MISS THUNDERSTORMS
When i arrived in United States 6 months back, Houston was my home town. Houston is like a hub of thunderstorm and while majority of the people seem to hate it, i totally love it. Probably because i have an alter ego that is dark 😉
Let me share a story
I remember vividly.
It was raining that afternoon. They were wrapped under covers eating hummus off each other’s fingers and cuddling away like there’s no tomorrow. His face had the biggest smile and her eyes sparkled brighter than the North Star. They watched a sappy Bollywood movie and kept mocking each other about all the things they get annoyed by.
When they made love that afternoon, it thundered. It took time and effort for both of them to separate themselves from each other. As she got dressed, she found him with his head buried in his hand. She sat down on her knees.
‘Did i do something wrong?’ she hesitantly asked well aware of the fact that his answer might once again stab her heart.
He looked at her and smirked. He lifted his face and put his hand over her head. Gently he kissed her on his forehead. She felt the drop of tears that ran down from his eye. In an almost broken voice, he said ‘You won’t ever leave me, no?’
She said, “I crave the depth of your mouth and I won’t pull away from you any sooner. Time is a temporary glitch in our insignificant lives. I’d rather kiss your hard and walk away than stare at you for hours not knowing if we’ll ever burn bridges again.”
“You’re the other kind of selfish.” he said. “You make me want to want you all for myself.”
And then, they made love again, until the sky was no longer blue.
When he woke up later that night because of her routine stirring in her sleep, he thought to himself, ‘I will be the last man standing, for her.’ He kissed her on her forehead again and went back in time to think how she came into his life and found him.
She sang Young and Beautiful that night. That voice in his head whispered slowly, assuming that in the loud music of the bar, he would miss it. When he took that sip of his whiskey on the rocks and looked at her that very minute, he knew. She is the one.
I still remember how he said his story. I still remember how much he ached to love her. I still remember how much he tried.
I still believe him.
But She, does not.