The Storm -- A Quiet Fantasy
We stroll along the beach, looking at the stars twinkling above. You run ahead, laughing, splashing in the shallow, gentle waters on the shore. Neither of us notice the storm moving in until the deluge begins, at which point, it's too late. We seek refuge in the only shelter around, beneath an overhang under a cliff.
Within moments, it's a solid sheet of water cutting us off from the balance of humanity. We see nothing, but our clothes, soaking, begin to steam in the warmth our bodies have trapped. We shiver, and you smile.
"Let's warm up ..." who suggests it, we say at the same timeit at the same time ... we laugh, and your eyes darken as our garments are shed.
Thunder cracks overhead as we move closer, making us jump. You move so delightfully when you're startled.
Your naked chest glistens in the watery spray thrown back from the sand -- we make a bed of our clothes, and as the storm rumbles, we come together.
Is our passion fueled by the fury of the storm? We care not -- save that the storm moves on as we move -- and as its fury peaks, so do we.
A blinding flash of lightning -- a whipcrack of thunder -- explosion -- The storm, or us, or both ...
We lay sated, smiling, touching gently, taking one another in the sweet afterglow.
Afterwards, we step naked into the cleansing raing -- the sweat and fluids removed from our body by the force that allowed them there.
Dressing, we watch the storm move away -- blustering into the west.
We step out into a world renewed. Beauty, life -- all present, all renewed and bright again.
Shall we go for a stroll?