by Manuel Gonzales

Then it starts raining.

A hard rain, and fat drops hit her forehead, make her hair wet, and turn her blue shirt black. Maybe she's crying. I sit on the bed and watch her through the window. Her face blurs until I can't see her through the rain. I open the window, but the screen is wet, and still, I can't see. Doesn't take more than a slap to knock the screen out of the frame. I stick my head through the window and I feel the cold water run over my neck, down my shirt. Come inside? I ask. Please? You're soaking. She doesn't turn. She stands outside and she stares. I can see her face outlined against the gray sky. Sharp and pretty. Delicate. From where she stands, you can't see the red on her cheek. Water falls from my hair and rolls down my nose in small, tickling drops. I wipe my face with my night shirt, and my sleeve comes away dotted with red flecks. My head hurts and my jaw is sore. I look at the clock. Maybe we should go back to bed, I say. It's still early, I say. Nothing.

Should I make us some coffee? I ask.

She turns towards me and now I can see the red. Will you come inside? You'll get sick.

She looks away. Her hair is soaked through by now and I can see clearly the outline of her breasts beneath her wet gown. I pull myself back inside and sit on the bed. I look in the mirror and then I look around the room for a pair of pants. I find a sock and slip it on and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth, but instead turn back to the window. She is still there. She holds herself tightly. I should hold her tightly. Shoes. Under the bed?

I pick up a picture that fell from the nightstand during the night. The glass doesn't look broken, and so I place it on my pillow. The window is still open and the air is cool. Mist blows in from outside and the carpet by the window is wet. I take a towel from the bathroom and drop it over the wet spot, and standing on the towel, I look out the window. She is sitting now. Sitting, she is a little girl. Her head is propped on her knees, and her arms are wrapped around her body. At least when she was standing, she looked strong. Maybe even proud. She's rocking. Maybe she's humming. The rain is loud on our roof. Maybe I should put on some coffee.

I look at the time again. Still early. Her alarm will go off in fifteen minutes. Then she'll get out of bed and go into the bathroom. She'll brush her teeth and wash her face. And by the time I wake up, there will be coffee next to the bed, waiting for me. I'll take a shower while she combs through her wet hair. I'll kiss her cheek and smudge her make-up and she'll hit me with her towel. Then she'll go to work, and then I'll go to work. Maybe I should put on some coffee. Then, maybe we'll take the day off. We'll drink our coffee in bed and then we'll make love. Maybe we'll see a movie. Maybe we'll go for a walk. Tonight, a nice dinner. I'll make salmon. She loves salmon. And shrimp, with a garlic sauce and white wine. Lots of candles. I pick up the phone and listen into the receiver. There's no one there.Then, I'm in the bathroom again, in my hand my tube of toothpaste. I hear something outside, and maybe it's her, so I go back to the window. But it's not her. It's thunder and the sky is darker and the water falls in sheets. For a second, I can't see her. Then she moves. She stands and looks at the clouds and at the rain and holds her arms up and open. Maybe she's screaming. I stick my face out the window and shake my head so that my hair catches the gutter water. The clouds grow darker and the sky, lighter. The sun is rising. I should turn off the porch light. I look for my other shoe. And then I make the bed. The picture is on the floor and I hit my toe walking to the other side of the room. Her alarm goes off. Beethoven. She likes Beethoven. I look at the floor and I see her skirt and I see her shoes. Her blouse is folded over a chair in the corner. A belt hangs over the doorknob. Her perfume is on the counter next to the sink. Next to her toothpaste. And her pills are in the medicine cabinet. Her book is on the floor next to the bed. Where is she? I check the window. The rain has stopped and the air smells clean. She is gone, and from the kitchen I can smell coffee brewing.