Storm Clouds Gather

(This wasn't supposed to turn out the way it did, but thanks to reading an essay by a friend of mine who is a pretty good writer, it kind of went in a surprising direction. I blame you, and you know who you are!)




She lifts the long, thin, blackened mascara wand to her eyelashes, carefully, slowly. She hasn't worn makeup since... well, it has been a while. At least she is wearing the black, ruched blouse that makes her feel like she could pass for attractive. Shaved legs are nice. Too bad they are peeling from a vicious sunburn she earned by forgetting sunblock and spending an entire day in the early June sunshine. She sighs, letting the breath out in long, quiet jets. Too late now. Turning in the mirror for a look at her profile, she rests her left hand on her hip, sticks her elbow out behind her, and poses. Oy. Well, she isn't a supermodel, but she could stop you in your tracks for a second look.

Nerves. Are. Debilitating. They turn her into a hyped-up version of herself. Slightly too high-strung, a little bit jumpy, a tad too uber-cognitive. Just feel it. Deep breaths through the nose... and exhale. Again. Her toes grip at the bathroom rug under her small feet. She has always had the ability to grasp with her toes, almost like they are fingers, and their grip is strong. Each individual fiber in the rug she can feel... such sensitive skin. She forgot to put aloe on her burns today. No wonder they are peeling more than yesterday. Absently, she scratches at the sunburn, too late remembering why she shouldn't. A simmering fire starts in her calf, where she has touched, and runs the length of her lower leg. Damn. She is forgetful by nature.

With a last look at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she smiles ironically and steps out of the tiny space, slips on her flip flops, heads out the door with her CamelBak under one arm and a sweatshirt under the other. This will be the most interesting date she has ever had. Dinner, and a hike. She loves the idea. Before, dates have always been just a movie, or dinner, or something equally as boring, but she doesn't want to do anything boring anymore. The hike was her suggestion. Perfect.

He stands quietly beside his car, shining and silent. She strolls up to him, and awkwardly whispers the first thought in her head. I'm nervous. That shouldn't have been it, though. She clamps down hard on her tongue, and wishes for a time machine. Get it together. He glances sideways at her, smiles so very faintly, says nothing. He'll forget it in a minute, she will agonize over it the whole car ride to the restaurant. As he turns to open the door for her, she is shattered by the sudden glint of sun rays bouncing off his golden-tanned arms, and the brilliantly bleached, downy-soft hair covering them. Her breath is sucked out of her in a swift vortex... Get. It. Together. She shivers a little in the suffocating afternoon heat. It has been a while.

In his old, distressed sub-compact, the quiet seeps into the cracks in the dashboard and the threads of the carpet... even the a.c. seems subdued, spluttering softly as if to not interrupt the silence. She keeps a running commentary in her head, making lists and counting blocks to calm herself. She steals a glance in his direction. His smile still lingers faintly on his lips, but his nervousness is belied by the faint, repetitive brushing of his knee against the steering wheel. The windows begin to roll slowly down the door, curtains falling on Act One, and the wind picks and prattles at her hair, gently pulling curling tendrils out from behind her ears; they cavort on the breeze like giddy fillies in an emerald green mountain meadow. She lets the vision dissipate. A familiar mantra rolls through her head... "Sun is warm, grass is green." Of course, she stole that well-known line from a blockbuster picture, but it works for most situations.

At the restaurant, they sit opposite each other in an over-sized, over-stuffed, overly red booth with a blowsy, bold Formica table sturdily planted in between. She gets her first look at his eyes. Blue. So blue, and intensely staring at her from deep-set sockets, over-hung by full eyebrows. His stare is measuring. She fiddles with the pockets on her dark brown shorts, crosses her legs, recrosses them, as they talk. Then something changes in his eyes, his expression going from wary to soft in an instant. She relaxes against the crimson Vinyl seat back, and slips into herself again.

The drive through the canyon is again as silent as the first, but then, there is the scenery to distract them. The steep canyon walls soar two thousand feet above the river bottom, ending abruptly in a triumphant display of fierce, craggy rock, piercing the dark azure sky. It is only an hour until twilight, but neither he nor she is unsettled. Night hikes are pleasant. It is quieter at night.

They step out of the car, adjusting and fitting their small day-pack or CamelBak to each respective shoulder alignment, and set off through the waist-high grass and wildflowers growing beside the trail. It is an incredibly steep single-track, with a rating of 'Difficult', not made for easy, side-by-side travel; she contents herself with watching his calves flex with each stride. Man, he is so fast. Quickly, her breathing becomes strained and shallow, but still she presses on. The icy mountain stream they wade through to continue following the path refreshes her somewhat; she is renewed, but not for long.

"Stop. Your pace is killing me."

He halts instantly, but takes his time turning around to face her. His expression is unreadable. She turns around to stare off downhill, and pulls at her CamelBak tube, sucking water in forceful gulps. Too fast, now she cannot breathe for all the water in her mouth... slowly her breathing returns to normal, and he smiles, tentatively. Without words, they both turn back up the trail, this time proceeding markedly slower than the mad rush that characterized the first half of the climb. Again she is captivated by his calves as they swing effortlessly in a steady forward motion. It has been a really long time. She shakes her head to clear the illicit vision forming in her mind. So this is what attraction feels like. Who knew.

After an elevation change of about a thousand feet, they emerge from the scrub and sparse vegetation to plunge into true darkness. Cave. A metal plaque set into a low-lying boulder at the mouth of the grotto marks the entrance, and relates anecdotes on the history of the surrounding area. Soot marks blacken the ceiling and walls, long-dead fires that burned bright for the unknown peoples who started them.

He hardly speaks, she thinks. I don't think I have heard him utter anything more than three words strung together in hours. It is such a break from the babble-fest that dominates most human inter-relations.

They wander through the grotto, their footsteps causing gusts of air and sound to resound against the uneven rock walls. At the back of the cavern is a semi-vertical shaft, dusky sunlight streaming weakly from the top of the natural chimney, half-hidden from her light-blinded eyes. He spots it first.

Do you want to climb up there, he asks. He casts his intense sky blue eyes to meet with her dark chocolate brown ones, and waits for her reply. She ponders.

I am such a klutz, it might not be a good idea, she states lamely. He just continues to stare at her in that unnerving, but strangely reassuring way. She decides to be slightly reckless. Ok, let's climb it.

The climb up the confining shaft is surprisingly un-eventful; the view from the top is disquieting. She feels like she is standing on a topless tower, a spire so high that the clouds tickle at her cheeks and welcome her into their secret sky. They stand near the edge, daring the wind to get aggressive with its caresses and force them to bend under its turbulent will. A storm is gathering, hovering over the south end of the canyon walls and turning the sky a forbidding blue... the clouds, simpering ladies' maids, try on different colors, colors cast off by the fiery setting sun, a wealthy woman's forgotten clothing littering the floor. Neon pink, angry purple, blood red... the sky is crying, bleeding, rending and tearing the atmosphere apart. Murderous shapes appear in the nimbus; a terrorizing many-headed hydra, a burning dragon of thunderheads in turmoil.

She takes out her small, silver digital camera and shoots off several photos... but each picture cannot come close to portraying the perfectly vivid shades of furious colors in the sky. He leans in to observe her futile photographic efforts, she doesn't move; heads close enough for individual strands of their hair to mingle faintly in the electrifying stratosphere. Their movements are slow, deliberate, in sheer contrast to the roiling, unpredictable air around them.

She cannot handle it anymore, cannot stand the charged tension shooting off sparks between them. She jerks her head up and meets his eyes, her gaze stabbing into his without apology or reserve. He stares back... an astonishingly temperate expression in his eyes. He is smiling. It sets her back on her heels, and she loses her equilibrium for a moment. Recovers. Plunges in toward him and like ravenous lions they crash into each other, their bodies melding like hot-forged steel, his lips burning tendrils of fire along her jawline. The tumultuous storm boils over the mountain top.