Sudden Storm

The rain came out of nowhere. They're driving home, not late but late enough. Sheets start to fall from the sky, landing like concrete waves obliterating any visibility. Slow down, she says. Easy, easy. He taps the breaks, throws on the four way flashers. The air gets close, their skin tightens and breathing gets shallow. Up ahead lights glare, fade and recede then flash back into view at an alarming frequency. Reds, yellow, orange. Mainly red. Pull over, can you pull over? I'll try. He signals. They maneouver slowly to the shoulder. What feels like a shoulder, but the rain. They can't tell.  It's deafening now. Should we stay put, what do you think, I can't tell. Isn't it dangerous to leave the car? The two of them sit in stasis, staring ahead, nothing but the sound of the rain beating on them incessantly. Unforgiving. I'm glad you're here, he says. I'm glad you're with me. That we're together. I don't tell you that, do I? She stares straight ahead. Her face is illuminated by passing cars, streaked with rivers of water. Tears or rain, he can't tell. Her hand releases and opens, palm up, next to his thigh. I know, she says. I know. As quickly as it came, the rain disappears. Stops, dries up. The light shifts as cars slowly come to. Rip Van Winkle, awake. Should we go? We should try, before it opens up again. Wait, he says. Wait, I....he trails off. I....She turns to him. Drive, she says. Let's go home. She slides her hand under his thigh. For comfort. For warmth. To attach and ground her. Yes, let's go home.