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It’s a warm spring day.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Well – mostly not a cloud in the sky, but they’re the tall, billowing, cottony ones that remind you of when you were a child, when you would lay out on the wooden, rotting deck attached to the back of your house and stare up at them with Eve, picking out anything you might be able to find in them. Like a child’s Rorschach test. As you grew older, you stopped seeing unicorns and fish people and started seeing taxes and unfinished essays and then, finally, you hadn’t seen anything at all.
But today, walking down the woodland trail hand in hand with Eve, you point upward at one of the clouds and ask, “What do you see?”
Eve’s eyes follow your finger to the cloud. Her nose scrunches up, a scattering of freckles just slightly prominent from your time in the sun together filling in the creases. “A castle?”
You tilt your head as you gaze at the cloud. “A castle…on…a cloud?”
“Ugh, no.” Eve presses her fingers to one side of her forehead. “Agnes had a bunch of choir kids try and perform that, and it was horrible.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You reminded me!” Eve shoves you, and you start to stumble to one side, but with your hand holding tight to hers, she stumbles over, too, and knocks into you. She smiles uneasily and looks back up at the cloud. “What do you see?”
Of course, you hadn’t thought Eve would ask you the same question. Maybe that was a little short-sighted. You stare up at the cloud, trying to find images the same way you used to be able to cross your eyes and make 3-D out of 2-D, but for a while, nothing comes. It’s just cloud. And cotton. And fluffy white. Then, eventually, you say, “Remember that poodle Mrs. Harkness used to own? The one that would chase you around all the time?”
Eve laughs, half a bright bubbling sound and half a near cackling, until she snorts. “Yes,” she says between breaths, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, yes, I can see him! Chester, right?”
“I always thought that should be a cat’s name.”
Eve snorts again. Then she interlaces her fingers with yours and tugs you forward. “C’mon,” she says. “I want to make it to the end of the trail before the rush!”
The little restaurant at the end of the trail is one of Eve’s favorite places. She’s been there often enough that the waitresses know her by name – she always tips generously, even when you cover the bill – and she always thinks it’s at its best after a long walk up the trail. You feel bad about getting there all sweaty and gross, but Eve assures you that they’ve told her plenty of times that it’s fine. That’s why they’re at the end of the trail. At least you aren’t the people who eat breakfast there, walk all the way to one end, and then travel back in time to get dinner.
You wince sheepishly at this. (You have definitely been that person before.)
Eve catches your wince and gives your hand a gentle squeeze before mouthing, “It’s not you today.”
“Yet,” you whisper in her ear as the waitress leads you to Eve’s favorite table. “You still have to ride back with me.”
Now Eve winces.
When you leave the restaurant, the clouds overheard have grown worryingly darker.
You make a perplexed face. “I think it’s going to rain.”
Eve looks up, tilts her head to one side, and then says, “Nah. That’s just when Mrs. Harkness’s poodle got stuck in that paint can.”
This time, when she snorts at her own joke, you can’t help but laugh with her. It doesn’t make you less worried – a thunderstorm while you’re out on the trail sounds not great – but it does help ease your anxiety.
A little bit.
Eve feels the first raindrop about halfway down the trail. She wiggles her nose, scrunching it up again, but then denies it when you ask. “I didn’t feel anything. Anything at all. We’re fine.”
Then you feel one right on the back of your neck. You shudder. “Eve. Are you saying you didn’t feel a raindrop just now?”
“I said we’re fine.”
Eve looks up at your with a firm expression on her face, and honestly, you think that she should be able to stop rain with a face like that. She can’t, but she should.
The sky tears itself open when you’re still a half-mile away from your car. You’ve been trying to go faster, so that the two of you can get off the trail before this exact thing happens, but you’re already sore from the miles you walked to the restaurant. Your legs don’t want to go faster.
Even if they did, Eve doesn’t. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she was enjoying it. This is only affirmed when she elbows you, leans close, and then whispers in your ear, “I guess I don’t have to deal with your sweat stink on the drive back.”
You give her a look, but Eve just grins up at you with a look of mischief, and you can’t help the pang of love you feel for her in that moment. Of course, you’re getting soaked. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still feel that pang of love louder than the ones of anxiety you keep wanting to have.
Eve gives your hand another squeeze and then tugs you forward, runs with you just down the trail, and then pulls you under an arch of branches next to a creek that you’re certain will be flooding if this rain keeps up for too long. Not that you’re focused on the creek. She takes your other hand in hers and then leans up on her tiptoes before kissing the tip of your nose.
Now it’s your turn to scrunch your nose up as Eve giggles. “It’s cute when you do that.” She looks up at the sky through the tree branches, raindrops splattering all over her face, and asks, “What do you see now?”
You look up, trying unsuccessfully to keep raindrops from landing in your eyes, and finally say, “I’m blind, Eve. I can’t see anything.” Then you look over at her and see that she’s standing there with her mouth open, trying to catch rain the way that you try to catch snowflakes on your tongue in the middle of winter. You lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re cute.”
Eve startles, looks at you, lips curving in a gentle smile. “Not as cute as you.”
When she kisses you, you can almost forget about the rain.
Almost.