“You know, I’ve always loved the rain.” Edrisa says, staring blissfully at the rainy city. “It’s calming.”
“Oh?” Malcolm responds, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her waist while laying his head on her shoulder. “I didn’t know you liked the rain so much.”
She smells heavily of cherry blossoms, and Malcolm breathes deeply and holds her closer.
She laughs softly and leans into him.
“Yes, Malcolm, I like the rain.” She laughs harder at his actions. “Don’t you?”
“Sure, I guess.” He looks out the window, through the glass and locks of ebony hair that had fallen into his face. “I never really thought about it before.”
“Really?” She pulls away and gives him a confused look. “You, Malcolm Bright, are telling me that you’ve never thought about the rain? The man who is a profiler and thinks for a living, has never thought about the rain? I don’t believe you.”
Malcolm laughs and says, “No, you’re right, I have thought about it but not a lot. In my world, there are bigger things for me to think about. I wanna think about little things, but the big things scream louder.”
“Ah,” Edrisa nods. “Sometimes the little things drown out the big things’ screams. Ever consider that?”
“Not really. The screams are too loud.” He lays his head back down.
“Okay, well, how about this?” Edrisa spins around in his arms and grasps his hands. “How about you dance with me and pretend the big things don’t exist?”
She steps and sways and Malcolm laughs too hard to do much of anything. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed this hard.
“Oh, but how can we dance when we have no music?” He exclaims, his voice raising in a joyous shout.
“We don’t need any music--the rain is our music!”
After a moment of Edrisa dancing alone, of her smiling and swaying to the pounding rain, Malcolm slowly begins to step in time with her.
Eventually, they’re dancing and laughing to the point of tears. They cling to each other in attempts to stay standing, but at a point it’s futile because they’re on the floor, laughing and crying.
“You know what would make this better?” Edrisa asks, wiping away tears.
“What?” Malcolm asks.
“Follow me!” She jumps up, stumbling a bit, and runs towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Malcolm stands and tries to keep up, but Edrisa is always three steps ahead and just out of reach.
She runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Malcolm runs close behind.
Once she reaches the final three steps, she leaps to the floor and pushes the heavy door open.
She runs out to the sidewalk and into the rain, not even bothering to grab a coat or umbrella.
Edrisa throws her arms out and screams, “Rain makes everything better!”
She stands on the sidewalk, arms outstretched, drenched in rainwater and happy tears.
“Risa, you’re gonna catch a cold.” Malcolm says through laughter.
I’ve never laughed this hard, Malcolm thinks. And Risa has never looked so beautiful.
“I don’t care!” She screams, unmoving.
Malcolm laughs. He realizes she isn’t going to come inside on her own, so he steps before her and lifts her up and over his shoulder in one swift motion.
She pokes at his back but he ignores her, their laughter echoing off the brick walls and rain drops.
Malcolm carries Edrisa up the stairs and through his doorway, and brings her all the way to the sofa and drops her on the leather, ignoring the rain water drenching their clothes and dripping off their skin.
She curls onto her side, laughing to the point her tears mix with the rain water. Her ebony hair sticks to her face and water droplets smear on her glasses, blurring her vision but she didn’t care.
Neither of them cared about anything, they were too caught up in the bliss of the moment.
Edrisa forgot about the horrors of her job, about the disturbing mutilations she sees daily, about the knowledge of the world’s evils.
Malcolm forgot about his nightmares, about the trauma from everything he’s experienced, about the living hell he suffers through.
They laugh and cry happy tears, laying together in a jumble of limbs and tears and rain water.
They danced and cried and laughed and together, they forgot about the big things and focused on the song of the small things.
YOU ARE READING
The Coolness of A Dead Man's Hand - Prodigal Son
Short Story"That's the thing: I do. I do deserve The Surgeon's pain because I'm his son. My real name is Malcolm Whitly. I changed it because I wanted to get away from him. See, I thought that I was afraid of my father and everything he taught me. But really I...
