A Day Of Heat and Flirting

Late evening, with the last vestiges of daylight a rapidly deepening blue away in the distance. Not far enough north for it to remain in blue twilight all night. I sit and listen to the soft rain falling through the trees and remember standing out in the yard during a thunderstorm twenty years ago letting the downpour cool me. This is softer rain, pattering past leaves as it falls. At the end of another day of heat, of driving with all the windows open, getting chatted up on a petrol station, of walking beside a canal full of yellow lilies, damsel flies and fish, the sun hot on my pasty white skin. Of going home and dozing in the muggy afternoon, thinking of the woman from the petrol station. Not often (never more like) that things like that happen to me. How often do dreams become flesh? They don’t and it didn’t here. “What’s your number?” she said, but I smiled and drove away with a wave. And if I had given her my number, what then? Who knows, but I’m sure she was just flirting. Still, it may have meant nothing, but it was flattering all the same. And she’ll be in my mind as I drift off to sleep to the soft rustle of rain.

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