Roses in the Rain

I'd like to bring you roses in the rain. I'd make sure the forecast was for downpours all day, torrential, soaking, heavy, sheet rain. The sort that crackles with electricity that tells you there is thunder in the air. The kind that makes the hot tarmac hiss and sigh, exhaling steam smelling sweetly of memories in my mind. Midsummer showers. A relentless sluicing deluge.  I'd choose my roses earlier that day at a market store, twelve perfect red buds, vibrant and sexy, wrapped hastily in cheerful coloured newsprint.  I'd make sure I forgot my umbrella and coat, I'd wear impractical shoes.  And because it would be midsummer I'd wear a skirt.

I'd set out in high spirits, clutching my roses and smiling all the way through the deluge, imagining your face when you finally see me.  Soaking to the bone, clammy cotton translucent against hot skin, I'd arrive, glowing, on your doorstep, the roses held to my chest, dripping, the paper crumpled, but still beautiful. I'd ring your doorbell and wait for you to come down, beaming all over my face, feeling rain drip into my mouth, blinking wet eyelashes, shifting wet hair out of my eyes.

"Hello" you'd say, as you answered the door, a look of utter puzzlement on your face.  Still smiling, adoring every inch of you with lively eyes, I'd say "I've brought you roses"  And you'd look at me in that way you do, that look that tells me I've proved that I'm a freak again.  But then you'd smile, say thank you graciously, take the soaking wet roses from me and beckon me in.

Closing the door behind us you'd look at me wryly, and I'd look back at you with adoring eyes, and fall into your gaze, and step forward and kiss you.  And at first you would say no, and protest through my kisses, gentle and soft, but eager and earnest.  But then you'd just let yourself be swept into a dripping embrace, sweet hot kisses deepening as your eagerness would grow.  And you'd drop the roses as you'd reach up to cradle my face in your hands and they'd lie there forgotten in a flurry of tenderness.

And then, the next morning, as you'd rush out, late for your lecture I have no doubt, you'd spy them there on the doormat, the paper shrunken and crumpled but the flowers still perfect, all vibrant and sexy and velvety red. And you'd pick them up lovingly and smile to yourself, and take them to the kitchen to put them in water.
Then as you finally left the house that morning your mind would be filled with the ever - imprinted memory of me, in a skirt and impractical shoes, bringing you roses in the rain.