https://www.angelfire.com/art/letters/annex.html
writegirl@altavista.com
Elevation:Sea Level
R.A.Barrington
41 degrees. Upper Midwest USA. 10 p.m. news flashes must-see leaders.
She just watched “I Married An Axe Murderer.”
She gets up and walks down the hall and slips into his study. He is sitting in leather wingback chair reading a new Robert Anton Wilson. His long fingers obscure the title.
“Want to swing around the block with me?” she asks.
“Yes.”
He slips on his Bruno Magli’s and a white, hooded sweatshirt. She bought him the sweatshirt. He thinks the color is gay.
She throws on flip-flops and her red leather scuba jacket.
He opens the back door. It is raining. He grabs an umbrella, opens it, and pulls his hood up.
“There’s room for both of us.” she says.
“I’m good.” he says as rain wets his face.
Two minutes in, she knows she should have worn her clear vinyl slicker, boots, rain hat. Too late.
He is holding her hand so tightly that her silver protest rings are digging into her bones.
Each house is decorated in Christmas lights, each with a personality…red, white, and blue…all white icicles…26 non-religious figurals…a electrified candle in each window…swag lights with red bows…a scattering of crosses…one blue star. All of the colors smear in the rain, a silent carnival of color.
“Relax your elbow.” she whispers.
He does. Her fingers breathe.
As they near the high-voltage towers they hear loud snapping noises and a strange odor. “Our nightly radiation dose.” he says.
“I bet it is always there…” she smiles and continues, “the rain just let’s us know of its presence.”
Her hand is aching again. Her feet are soaked, jeans drenched from the knee down.
She loves the night, her wet feet dancing along on the new black asphalt, his face dripping wet, her hand being smashed into his.
She has never known a man who needed her as much as this one does.
Back inside, she slowly dries him off.