Baby, Come Home

It should have been raining.

That is how it is in the song.

The steering wheel is trembling in my grasp. The seat is heaving. The windshield is wet with the rain that is not there.

"She's in a long black coat tonight."

Red tail lights blinking, blinding. Distorted. The car suddenly feeling smaller and tighter. 

"Waiting for me in the downpour outside."

Tires lose air. The wheels fall off. 

Rain runs in rivulets down the windows. 

"She’s singing, 'baby, come home' in a melody of tears."

The fan is wheezing. Temperature in flux, cold vents battle hot air. 

Cold sweat burns on my skin.

"While the rhythm of the rain keeps time."

The traffic moves. The rain comes down hard. 

Lights flash, and dissipate. I am shivering under the heater.

Everything heaves. The wheels barely move; tires in shreds.

"Baby, come home."

Calypso Du Evening

Sunday evening.

The closing of a weekend well spent in warm beds and warmer embraces.

The weekday melancholy rushing relentlessly, refusing to let our peace, our space stay.

We will make the best of this.

We will make tonight timeless.

A stroll on the banks of the canal, the sun resting into the earth, ruddy glow dissipating from the sky, giving way to our favourite blues.

Walking hand in hand, hers perfectly holding mine, sharing our warmth. Our breaths misted out, mingled and flew ephemerally into the dusk.

I wordlessly asked her to join our senses, twirling the tiny square of our music between my fingers.

She smiled, sprinkling stars into the growing night, ready with our ears.

I gave the square a little shake, leaving it to digital fate.

One - Ed Sheeran.

 Cosmos smiles down on us. The late evening becomes the perfect night.

We walk along the water, pulled deep into our third space, the world around us melting into azure. Sight was not important. There was only sound. Her touch. Our warmth.

The trees rang out with soft strumming, wind serenaded sweet notes, our feet tapped the bass beneath us.

We walked closer, arms wrapped, spirits entwined in unison of music.

I turn to her, her hands in mine, her eyes whisking me into her universe.

"You are my only one."

We Roam

Sunday blues.

Home felt like a house when we grabbed the keys and made our way down the winding staircase into the brisk October.

Vespertine sounds greeted us as we took in the welcoming darkness. We were delinquents in a modest neighbourhood.

Draped in PJs we all but ran to the car. 

Keys in the ignition. A moment's hesitation.

"Just drive," she said.

The V8 roared to life, lights illuminated the ashen asphalt, we took off, burnt rubber left hanging in our wake.

The roof pulled down, the wind weaved through our hair and stung our eyes. Refreshing, reinvigorating.

She pushed in a CD, drums and electric guitars sprang to life from the speakers and I squeezed the accelerator, putting more distance between us and the rest of the reality.

I laughed. Everything weighing me down now a halfbaked vapour drifting away in our slipstream. She smiled, eyes closed, making my heart do the two-step.

We were free. We were moving. Fast. 

Time lost meaning in the din of motor and music, we drove aimlessly, the empty roads a heaven-sent. 

Nothing but endless skies above us, she raised her arms, embracing the universe. We were lost in blissful detachment; nothing mattered but here and now and us.

A hilltop park beckoned us. Stationary wheels did not stay our spirits. We needed to be loud.

But speaker-fueled ambience was unbecoming. She grabbed her guitar from the backseat. 

Copper strings strummed the still air. The universe hummed along.