Through The Rain E-Book

Jeremiah K. Black

• Herausgeber: Berlinable UG (haftungsbeschränkt)
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 51

Beschreibung

Through the rain, Michelle watches her neighbors across the road as they clean up after dinner, the light of their window contrasting with the downpour outside. She fantasizes about them, wondering what it might be like to join them. She is making dinner for her date, he should arrive any second, and she wonders if they'll have sex. John shows up early, drenched from the rain. Neither of them is interested in dinner. They kiss. They shed their clothes on the kitchen floor and have explosive sex against the refrigerator. All thoughts of dinner are forgotten.

Leseprobe

THROUGH THE RAIN

Jeremiah K. Black

Artcover: Ray Litsala

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

It was raining. Big, heavy drops that fell straight down and made a soft “thuk” when they hit the patio. It was a good sound…solid. The drops that hit the lawn were silent, like they didn’t exist at all. The ones that hit the round metal roof (designed so that squirrels couldn’t crawl down and steal the seed) at the top of the bird feeder were louder: almost jarring, like an army of tiny little hammers was pounding, shaping the metal into something else. Michelle could hear the rain on the roof, tapping on the shingles. On the leaves, slapping. It ran down the plate glass at the front of her condo; a steady waterfall encasing her space. She could see it pooling in spots by the walk. Light bubbled and bounced in the puddles: reflections from the streetlights, passing cars, the quarter moon in the night sky. She had just run in from her car, rushing to get home in time. She had gathered up her things from the passenger seat and made it from the garage to her front door in less than ten seconds but still her shoes were soaked, her blouse was wet. She stood in her kitchen, flats kicked off, looking out the window, feeling the water through her clothes. The lights were still off. The whole place was calm, silent. She reached under her untucked blouse and unclasped her bra, tossed it on the counter next to the Sendik’s grocery bag filled with canned artichoke hearts, dried linguine, basil leaves, tomatoes. It sat there, twisted. The two padded cups upended, catching the dim light from the window; straps coiled like a baby snake around them; a shadow starting out dark and then blending into the counter as it went out. The perfect still life. She wasn’t a painter. Or artist of any kind. That kind of shit was a mystery to her. Occasionally she’d think about it. She’d think: “What if?” What if she could swing by Michael’s Art Supply and stock up on acrylics, set up a studio in her extra room, sit there with the wireless speaker playing instrumental music while she filled up a canvas with color? Landscape? Irises? How does a person even know how to go about that? She’d watched Alex Ross as a kid. She knew, in theory, you just squirt the paint on the…what do you call that thing? That flat thing where you squeeze the paint on? Not the canvas but that round thing you hook your thumb into? Well, whatever it is, she knew you filled it with gobs of brightly colored paint, swished your brush in it to mix it around, and then…as per Alex Ross…you’d start with the sky. Back and forth with the brush laying down a base. OK. That seemed simple enough. But then you, as his student, needed to cut in the trees or whatever the hell you were painting that particular Saturday morning in front of the grainy over-saturated Zenith tube your dad was so damn proud of. That’s the point where she just couldn’t get it. How do you know what to paint? She couldn’t even think about how much she didn’t know about painting from her imagination. It was exhausting. Her neighbors, the childless couple across from her, were cleaning up after dinner. She could see them, through her window, through the rain. The husband was bringing dishes in from the other room. She couldn’t see the dishes, or his hands, or anything below his chest. The bottom of the window cut all that off. She knew they were dishes because he would walk in hunched, like he was carrying something, then turn and exit walking straight. The wife was filling the dishwasher. Michelle could see her stand, looking at the counter, then bend down out of sight.They were an attractive couple, dark skinned, well maintained. The wife worked for the Boys and Girls Club doing something…fundraising? She had a plump, round ass and narrow waist. And the husband had some job where he sat at a desk looking at a screen all day. Their names were…Dale and Corrine? She had chatted with them more than once, maybe a half a dozen times? They were on their patio as she walked by. On at least two occasions they had said sorry and asked her to remind them what her name was and she had told them and then said: “How about you? What are your names again?” And then she had promptly forgotten. They kept repeating their motions. He would walk in, stop, smile, hand the dishes to her, straighten up, pause, turn, walk out. She would wait for him to come in, smile, take the dishes, turn, bend down to put them in the washer, and then turn back and wait. Their window was lit up, shades pulled back, a neon drive-in movie screen just for Michelle. It was turning towards winter, towards fall. The days were shorter and shorter and it was dark out early; practically pitch black.She watched them, her lights turned off, no chance they would look up and see her. Her left hand moved up, slowly, under her wet blouse. Her right hand did the same. She felt the cool, wet fabric stick on her skin. The blouse draped over her hands.