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I locked the front door, hoping to lock out the pouring rain with the day’s frustration. It was day three of my wife’s vacation with her girlfriend, so again, I was returning to an empty house, another microwave dinner, and another sleepless night.
We promised one another we wouldn’t call. She deserved this vacation away from all the responsibilities waiting for her in Chicago, which included me. I didn’t deserve the loneliness I felt, but I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself if I had heard her voice. I would have begged her to return home to fill the empty house, fill my stomach starving for a home-cooked meal, and fill our bed with the other warm body I needed to sleep through the night.
We were newlyweds of six months. We were sickeningly in love. We missed each other if one of us simply left the room. Our sex life was magical. That’s why we promised we wouldn’t call.
I removed my cashmere trenchcoat, flipped on the jazz station, and sat at my computer. I wanted to check my e-mail to see if my best friend, Victor, had responded to my invitation to hit the racquetball court the following day. At that point, I needed anything that would take my mind off Delia.
My electronic mailbox contained an apology from Victor for having to forgo our racquetball appointment in favor of an art opening at the college with his new armpiece, Nicolette, and a reminder from my supervisor about the deal-breaking lunch meeting with a client the next day.
The sigh I released was worthy of a reaction to losing my treasured Thelonius Monk record, but it was really a response to feeling thoroughly detached from any sense of fun or pleasure. I missed Delia like a desert rose misses rain.
I went over to the bay window and gazed out onto the wet world. The rain was quiet, and since summer lurked around the corner, it was warm. The storm—its wetness, its warmth— made me think of Delia. Her presence always had a way of doing that, appearing in everyday things, keeping her with me when she wasn’t in arm’s reach. Then it hit me. She was thousands of miles away, and my satisfaction was with her.
I dragged myself to the kitchen to stick a frozen meal-in-a-box in the microwave.
“You’ve got mail.”
The computerized voice startled me, since I’d convinced myself that I was completely alone in the world. I dashed over to my computer, hoping the new message was from Victor, saying Nicolette called off their date, or from my boss, saying the client canceled the lunch meeting. No luck… but the new message intrigued me even more.
I was glued to the screen as I read:
Hey, Sugar. I miss you dearly. I know we said we wouldn’t call, but I would go insane if I couldn’t communicate with you in some way for the length of my trip. I can’t say much, because I slipped away from the group to drop you this message, and Sonya and Karen would kill me if they caught me.Essence magazine organized a really great event for book lovers called Passion in the Pages. Anyway, just thought I’d let you know that I was enjoying myself, but every night I climb into that unfamiliar hotel bed, and I turn and you’re not there… my goodness, all I can say is my body is calling for you. The passion in the pages of these books has nothing on the passion we share. I can’t write much more, otherwise I’ll be on the next plane out of here and into your arms to pick up where we left off. I’ll be home tomorrow, so save a place for me in your dreams. Aching without you, hugs ’n’ kisses, Delia.
My mouth hung open. I was lost in her written words, wishing she was in my ear whispering them in that honeyed voice I fell in love with. I was so distracted I didn’t hear the firecrackerlike pops alerting me that my Lean Cuisine was burning in the microwave.
Delia had done it. She had violated our no-communication stipulation. There was no way she would escape my mind that night. I needed my precious lover with me. I needed my new wife to make me feel that old feeling. Outside, the rain came down harder, feeling my pain as well.
I walked upstairs to our bedroom, stripping my corporate costume along the way. I dropped my silk tie on the stairs, my starched shirt at the bedroom door, my pressed slacks at the foot of the bed. I flopped onto the king-size waterbed, but my journey from the computer to the comforter didn’t relieve a drop of my frustration.
The rain didn’t wash away Delia’s warm words, which I could hear echoing quietly in my ears. I was dying to pick up where we had left off, too. Alas, my queen was missing from the king-size bed we shared. There was an empty space where she used to rest, an empty pillow where she used to dream.
I approached her vanity, looking for her perfume. The one she loved so much. The one I loved so much because it reminded me of the contours of her coffee-colored skin. Realizing she had packed it with her on her trip, I pouted like a child who’s lost his toy.
Suddenly a single streak of lightning split the sky and zapped a flash of light into our dark bedroom. I saw the reflection of silver wrapping paper on my oak chest. I had purchased a six-month-anniversary gift. I was going to surprise Delia with a new bottle of the precious fragrance when she returned from St. Lucia.
It washer present, but I needed her near me. Selfishly, I figured this could be her gift tome—a way to make up for leaving me in the rain while she romped in the fun and sun of Jamaica. With guilt running through me, I ripped open the perfect packaging and sprayed the scent all over our bed. I inhaled the perfume and became intoxicated.
I climbed under the comforter and let my dreams bring her to me. I held myself like I thought she would if she had been there. I massaged the part of my body that longed to connect with her body. Working it with gentle friction, I prayed my imagination would make my efforts feel like the real thing. Her real thing. Her rain.
I let visions of her pleasuring me fill the moments between missing her and liking the feeling. I let the tranquil sound of the storm playing outside stand in for her sweet sounds of lovemaking. I handled my pulsing love limb until I psychically reconnected with her supreme love grip.
Her mist coated my root with the affection it needed to grow and expand, and rise and resist. Drenching my dreams with desire, lubricating my loins with lust, her rain rose like a typhoon. With the force a turbulent system passing through a balmy night, she bathed me in passion like an adult baptism.
She took me into the wetness of her garden, raining pure satisfaction on my desert rose. My palms felt her saturating the soil of my soul, flooding the fertile ground of my fantasies. The overwhelming sensual sensations—the perfume, the rain, the warmth—rolled like thunder.
I rode the waves of our waterbed as the storm raged.
With the mental rhapsody and physical gratification swirling with the intensity of a hurricane, I bloomed with ecstasy, releasing hot nectar on her side of our private flowerbed.
Dripping wet with sweat, I lay exhausted on the soaked satin sheets, dreaming I was sinking into the soft earth beneath me. Eventually my excitement subsided with the rain. I slept the night away in the calm after the storm.
The next day weak sunlight peaked through the transparent curtains over our picture window. It announced itself, as it always did after a rain shower, coming to replenish the love that makes the earth’s flowers blossom. The dew on the windowpane was Mother Nature’s quaint reminder of the pleasure the night had created.
Delia arrived while I was still acquainting myself with the sun and the new day.
She was still beautiful. Her radiance provided the extra light the room needed.
“Sugar, I’m glad to see you,” she beamed, dropping her travel case. “But I didn’t expect this kind of homecoming. I was welcomed home by the computer left on, jazz blaring from the stereo system, a burned mess in the microwave, clothes strewn about the house, and urgent phone messages from your boss saying you missed the lunch meeting your job depended on.”
“Get over here, baby,” I replied, grabbing her and pulling her onto our bed. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” I kissed her passionately and handed her an opened bottle of perfume.
“Well, I’m a little upset that you got started without me,” she said, slipping out of her clothes. “But let’s finish together.”
She joined me under the sheets. The sun suddenly disappeared, leaving us alone in our intimacy… until a quiet Chicago rain joined us in the moment.