welcome to the story.

You can tell when a storm is near, both with the weather and the personal. They roll in on hot, muggy afternoons when the world's been undisturbed for a while. And what was once stillness, all to quickly became loud. So it rained. Underneath an umbrella that refused to lose its battle with its master, I sat and waited for clarity of thought and weather to return. The umbrella would always be subject to the rule of the rain, for everything that is created in response to something is always bound to its yoke. But today it was giving us all hope that we could create and yet still be free. I waited under the umbrella and she waited in the pool. I'm sure she was hoping that I was as color blind as she clearly was. The rain bounced off the ground and onto my feet. Then it bounced on my legs. The it bounced on my body. Then it bounced on my arms. Then finally to the brown pages of my text. I wanted to put the book down in order to keep it dry, but feared having nothing to do with my mind more. She never took her eyes off me. I know this sounds vain, but swear on my life to its validity. Whether lonely, simply attracted to American men, being caught up in the moment of swimming in the rain, or a combination of them all, I do not know. The truth in her eyes remained and compelled just the same. Previously ignorant to the fact that Trinidad skin could be so beautiful and caramelized, I now was immersed in this full reality. The rain in her face rolled down her body, stopping only long enough to twinkle at me before its slow return to the heavens. The beauty and pain of being stuck in moment like this. The only thing constraining me from giving in to the game that she was playing with her eyes is a thin strand of discipline tied to the fabric of the spiritual. The sad thing was that it is getting weaker by the minute. Not that it was ever strong to begin with, but now hangs on the blade of an ax waiting to be cut. Like a guitar string that is being wound way to sharp, I sat and tried to concentrate on something higher. Soft as a wispy feather and hard as a rock in the most delicate sense of the phrase. And the only thing keeping me in my seat is a soggy copy of The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. I begged for the words to bring salvation to me in my hour of need. I promised to bleed them dry if they would just ring true. And as clearly as the bell started to chime, I began to drink in my redemption. "What a fool I've been!" She lays both hands on my arm and takes no notice of the smell of the hour. She is nowhere; she is in the realm of her idea. "Do you think it is possible for a person to make a single mistake-not do something wrong, you understand, but make a miscalculation-and ruin his life? My God, can a person live twenty-five years, a life of crucifixion, through a misunderstanding?" And with that the first and only chance to taste native Trinidad rolled off with the afternoon storm as I was left only with a torn feeling, slightly less painful than before. As the haze rose upward, so went my thoughts. Rufus echoed in my head, "It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah", as the noise faded to a quiet as white as a fresh linen sheet.