Strewing Flowers in the Rain

Strewing Flowers in the Rain

It started with just a few drops. Small, crystal clear drops, pattering outside and beating a rhythm into the roof above my head. I was sitting by the window, the world outside was a muddle of grey shapes.

Suddenly, I was running outside. The door to my bedroom was still ajar from my touch moments before. There was no one to stop me leaving the dorms, no one patrolling the hallways or the cobblestone courtyard. I splashed outside, gasping as the warm April rain hit my skin. It felt like I was coming up for air, I gulped it in greedily as my light summer dress began to cling to my skin. The world still seemed grey, but I was a part of it now, like one of the impressionist paintings Pierre had shown me earlier. ‘See how it is a wild painting?’ He had asked in broken English. ‘It is so simple, it is the most beautiful.’ The one splash of color in the painting was my pale blue dress, I liked the idea of that; I was merely a stroke of color.
Rain was starting to seep through my thick hair, I pushed a strand of it angrily out of the way as I continued out among the old Parisian streets. Tourists in bright umbrellas hurried into doorways, lovers huddled in forgotten street awnings, old men stared out at the pattering rain, holding a small cup of coffee or soft black cap. I, the flit of blue, hurried past, hoping no one would stop me.
I had one day left. I knew I would probably never see him again, but I didn’t think about that. I couldn’t. It was watching the rain, knowing it would get worse before it got better, that had driven me from my room. To him. How many times had he said I was crazy? Too many to count, but they often followed with a kiss.

I ducked right, past the Seine River and a wrinkled man shutting watercolor paintings away. This street was narrower, it was used as the back entrance for bakeries and pharmacies. It was only three shops down, and I was standing in front of a plain back door. A small bakery. The old handle was damp to my touch.
For a moment, the rest of me absorbed the other senses of this little brick back room. My breathing was uneven; the thick air and smell of baking bread was suddenly too stifling. I felt water squeeze out of my thin shoes onto the floor. It was quiet all of a sudden, with only the soft murmur of the heating ovens.

He was surprised to see me. There was pale dust on his hands and a smudge on his forehead. His cheeks were flushed from working so close to the ovens, there was a slight sheen on his skin. His dark eyes widened, glanced to the front way of the shop, and then filled with an emotion I had never seen before.
‘Salut’ he said uncertainly, smiling.
‘Hi’. My breathing still hadn’t steadied. He reached my in two strides, and his hands were hot again against my damp wrists. ‘Que’est-ce tu fais ici? Is something wron-‘
His heat, his nearness, was suddenly much too much to bear. My left hand snaked up from his shoulder and ran down the sharp bones just below his neck. He pulled me to him, pressing me into him as his lips found mine. He was scalding hot, his lips were so soft… My head was spinning again, something like electricity was running through my lips to my fingers to my stomach.
‘I’m leaving’ I breathed out. It should have sounded broken, desperate, but under his lips it was nothing more than a gasp.
‘Je sais’ he said huskily. He quickly turned away and went into the front room. I could hear him speaking in French to the owner. I leaned against the wall. My palms gripped the rough brick surface at my back, and for a second my eyes closed. The heat was still roaring in my head. How I would miss this. In my mind’s eye I could see the inside of countless castles, museums, cafes, hidden walkways. The thought of walking away tomorrow was unbearable.
Pierre came back into the room. My breath caught.
‘Come. Let us see the old lady Paris togezzur one more time, no?’ He took my hand, and again the heat of him was scalding. This room was too small, too hot, I needed out-
We ran down the ally way. The greys of the walls and rain was a blur. The rain was heavier now, it was beating on my skin. His curls were beginning to wilt, and he turned his head back to me with a crazy grin. His eyes were beautiful, they shone even though there was no sun in the sky.
We must have both been desperate to get away. We ran fast, and soon we were standing at the bridge’s edge. As we leaned against the railing, laughing and gasping, I realized there was salt mingling with the rainwater on my face, and laughed all the harder for it. His arms found me and dragged me close, and kissed me hungrily. I was dizzy and laughing, I drew away to stand in the middle of the abandoned road. My thin dress was completely soaked, and so were most of his clothes. We stared at each other, and he came up to me again, slowly, his face full of emotion.
In a moment, his face was much too close; I could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest. A single drop of water fell from a curl in his hair onto my nose. His lips were heavy, his tongue was curving around my own. I gripped him tightly, our hands were everywhere, searching. In a brief pause for air, I could hear him murmuring something into my ear. ‘Crazy’ he said.
His hands were getting tangled in the wet waves of my hair. I remember thinking how ridiculously soaking wet his shirt was, (never mind my own) and memorizing how his strong shoulders felt under the fabric.
I wanted to sear this memory in me forever. I never wanted it to end.

We walked down into the streets, winding through the old flower market. Forgotten blooms lay scattered here and then, dropped in the haste to get out of the rain. Some had been trampled, but others were still strong and vibrant. For the second time, I felt like I was walking in a painting. The downpour had lessened a bit, and the air was still heavy with humidity. My dress clung to me like a second skin as I twirled a dark blue flower between my fingers. As the winding roads began to straighten out and widen, we walked through a tiny gate into a small green garden, with miniature chipped saints residing on pedestals among the bushes.
Pierre gave my hand a squeeze. “It is a private garden.” He motioned with his free hand and sure enough, I saw the top of a large white and grey house above the foliage. The few windows I saw where shut and lightless.
“I don’t think they’re home,” I whispered, not quite sure why I was doing so.
He grinned at me.
“No. But I know this home.” I was content to simply walk with him, down the pathways made with small beige stones. The rain had finally stopped, there was nothing left but a heavy dampness in the air. My hair was sticking to the sides of my face, and my summer dress was getting uncomfortable. We had only been walking a few minutes when we came into view of a large circular fountain, with three benches seated around it. A little ways off to the left, and old unused wooden play set stood. We sat on the fountain’s lip, and I let a hand trail into the cool water. There were small dark green leaves floating under its surface, and small glints of copper winked up at us from the bottom. The sun was finally beginning to peer out of the humid gray. Our hands were twined, memorizing the calluses, the softness here, a crease of skin there.
“What will you do, in the US?” he asked. He was gazing at me, but I was still concentrating on his hands. He did not know how important this was to me, to feel as much of him as I could. There would be many more girls for him, every summer, every spring break…
“I have school. I’ll have to find another job soon. You remember my little sister, from the program? I’ll have to spend a lot of time with her, take her for ice cream, help with homework…” I stopped. I would become very busy, just like last year. I didn’t want to think about it with Pierre sitting next to me.
“You will be busy. Moi aussi.” His ‘s’ sounded like z’s. He had been slowly rubbing my shoulder, and moisture made it sticky. Now he slowly grazed his fingertips over the strap of my dress, snagging it down. He shifted himself, and took his other hand to push the second strap down. The heat was suddenly unbearable, when I realized what he was doing my hands found the bottom of his wet shirt and pulled it up with my hands slowly traveling up his chest. His breathing was heavy, impatiently he pulled the shirt over his head and immediately began kissing my bare neck and shoulders. My head was spinning again. He was hungrily kissing, sucking my skin, and I pushed myself against him and my hands kneaded his sculpted chest and back. Everything felt wet. My head leaned back, I barely noticed his hands had slid from my neck to the back of my dress. The zipper was thin and cheap, his big hands sharply tugged at it; the sound was loud and hurried. In an instant, the dress was around my knees, ankles, and my skin was prickling from the rain’s chill and Pierre’s heat. He held me tightly, and there in the garden by the fountain in the rain, we stayed until the sun came out.


I saw the stars, white pinpricks  in a blanket of black. I saw the old stone bridges. I felt his skin, his hungry lips against mine as we pressed into the cold iron of the Eiffel Tower. The plane was taking off, but I saw none of it. I was back to my first night with Pierre. How we had ended up running down the grass strips, weaving through weathered stone queens and angels, strewing torn flowers behind us in the lonely park. I had no tears; there was an aching hole in me. I wanted nothing more than to jump off the plane. I suddenly remembered what Mel back home had said just before I had left.
“This will be the chance of a lifetime. April is your birthday month, and you will be in the heart of Paris, the most romantic city in the world.” She had given me a hug. “Don’t worry,” she grinned, “you can afford to be a bit of an idiot.”
. I faced back to the window again. Wisps of white cloud floated by. For a long time I did not move, just stared out the thick plexi-glass window. I wondered if it was raining again. In my mind’s eye once more I saw the old flower market, brewing with specks of bright color. I leaned back and closed my eyes. My heart ached inside me, but all the memories were so vivid, and dreamlike at the same time. I would never lose those. And every time it rained, every time I saw a flower, perhaps pink or dark blue, I could relive them again.