STORM

by Carla King
 It is late afternoon and storm clouds gather over the sea on the

other side of the bay. Squinting, Eva pulls the wide-brimmed straw hat

lower over her eyes.

The ice cream vendor walks by pulling his faded red plastic cooler

full of ice and cardboard tasting ice cream cones, flinging bits of sand

behind him with each flip of his blue plastic thongs. It is the last time

he will pass today. Most people are packing up their things, folding

their towels, and gathering up their children who want to stay at the

edge of the sea. The children don’t want to go. They are jumping

excitedly at the flash of lightening, laughing at the thunder and

counting the seconds. It is still so far away.

“Another glass of rose?” asks John. His voice seems far away.

Eva hands her glass to him without answering. She’s had too much

already and the sun has made her head ache. Another glass will bring

back the oblivion. He pours and the crystal immediately frosts. It feels

nice on her fingers, on her throat. She takes several short sips. It is

good wine from the region, sweet with fruit, bitter with grape skins.

She holds the half empty glass up to him, and he fills her glass

again.

Eva leans back, her elbows on the yellow beach towel. The air is still

warm and hangs thickly around her body that is sticky, salty from

sweat and the blue green sea water. She thinks of getting up to rinse

herself in the fresh water shower by the edge of the beach but the

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effort seems to great and anyway, there is the storm that is coming

toward them. They must go soon. Her arms feel heavy.

Suddenly she notices the silence. Everyone has gone, and so

quickly. There are no more screaming splashing children, no lovers

embracing in the sea, no married couples quarreling. They have it to

themselves now, the entire Riviera. How often does that happen?

Another rumble of thunder. Oh, the light is exquisite now on the

sea. The clouds are heavy and white with gray and black edging. It’s

lovely. They should wait and risk its arrival. Wait until the last minute

and then rush to the car in the midst of it, letting the raindrops pelt

their backs, soak their clothes.

But John will want to leave soon. She can feel his struggle with

impatience and his unwillingness to express his desire to leave. He has

these fights inside, she always knows it. He can’t insist.

Well, she doesn’t want to care about his discomfort. It isn’t hers and

he can learn, or not, to express his desires. She sits up to look at the

clouds and to take another sip of wine and doesn’t look at him. She

tilts her head back to let the sun tease her eyes, then dips her head

again. She falls back on her arms and wills the sun to stay visible under

the clouds. She likes the golden warmth on her skin. It feels good to

stretch her neck back so far. Maybe he will kiss her. She closes her

eyes.

No.

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 Without speaking he stands and starts to pack their things into the

bag. He is ready to go whenever she says so, but he should lie down.

Lie down and enjoy the storm. It will be a warm storm.

“Lie down and wait for the storm with me,” she says.

He laughs and stands there, waiting for her.

The air will be warm and the cold raindrops will tumble on their

bodies, soaking their towels, their hair. She loves the Riviera rain.

She could love him if, right now, he would lie down and wait for the

storm with her. If he could put his arms around her in the thunder and

lightening to watch the sea together, watch the raindrops pounding the

sand, feel them on their skin, to be like the sea and let it stream into

them, over them.

“I need a shower anyway,” she adds, laughing.

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t laugh.

Fresh, warm water to wash the sweat and the sea salt from her

body. She won’t have to move, she will lie very still letting the drops

fall on her skin, on her eyelids, on her lips. If she wants she can open

her mouth and drink it.

The sun will be completely hidden soon with the clouds, now almost

nearly all black and moving swiftly toward them from across the bay.

She feels a movement beside her. Him. Oh, him. What will he do?

She could love him, she thinks, if he would make her leave right

now. If he would say something, if he would say we’re leaving and take

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her arms and lead her to the car without any fuss.

On second thought, a fuss would be just fine. Maybe a little tousle

and then a kiss, then driving, smoldering, in the car. A shiver goes up

her spine as she spins her little fantasy. She could love him if he could

do that.

The storm clouds hide the sun completely but the air is still warm.

He expects her to read him, to be sensitive to his needs without him

having to make demands. A short while ago Eva thought that she

wanted a man like him but now she knows she’s not the kind of woman

who can bother.

Far back in her mind she lies there like a child testing the patience

of a doting parent. Is he doting? Is the passion rising in him or will he

just stand there all fucking evening waiting for her? She really does

want to feel the raindrops on her body. Or maybe it’s only the idea of

raindrops. Maybe he should tell her what she wants. It should be

obvious by now.

“What if we took another swim?” she teases.

“A swim?”

“The storm won’t be here for another half an hour.”

“It’s closer than that.”

“Even so, let’s swim.” She could love him after all, maybe, if he

would do just that. Take off those creased khaki shorts of his and run

naked into the sea.

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 “It will be like swimming at night,” she murmurs, “we could take all

our clothes off and swim. There’s no one else here.”

She rises but he stays where he is as she walks to the edge of the

sea and stands there watching the little waves turn from sparkling blue

to gray, then go flat. Her hat dangles in her long fingers by her side,

her hair is sticky and wet down her back. With a quick flick of the wrist

she flings the hat down onto the sand, steps out of her bathing suit,

and walks into the water.

Has he followed? She wonders vaguely what he’s doing as her arms

stretch out in front of her, reaching further and further out toward the

center of the bay. Her limbs are not quite hers but moving

automatically with grace and long practice.

The sea clears her head. The water is thick but the salt makes her

buoyant. She moves quickly despite having drunk too much wine until

she is out in the kelp and a small panic rises. Has she swum too far

now?

She treads water, refusing to look around to the beach. The sky is

dark now and with her head out of the sea she hears the sky rumbling.

There is a flash and the goose flesh rises on her skin as a the electric

shock of the lightening travels through the water to her, dispersed but

still, a warning. Her heart beats a caution that her head does not hear.

And then there is the rain falling suddenly, so pleasantly just like

she imagined, the coldness of it coming from so high up inside the

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clouds and beating on her head. She turns on her back and floats,

buoyant in the salty water, savoring the drops that sharply strike her

bare skin.

Another flash of lightening, then the rumble of thunder again, still

several seconds behind it. It is time to start back, thinks Eva. It would

be foolish not to.

Her arms move, taking her slowly back to land. If he is still there

when she reaches the shore, if the beach is not empty except for her

bathing suit and her hat, she will hate him. That will be the end of it.

Another bolt of lightening flashes across the sky. Thunder follows

quickly, too quickly. She scans the beach but cannot see in the faded

light.

It will be his fault if she dies in this storm.

Long strokes, legs straight, she kicks toward shore. §

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