Whenever I think of rain I think of you. I think of the day you asked me all the places I want to go. It was miserable outside but we were by the fire. You had bundled through my front door earlier, stamping your feet and blowing into your hands cupped around your mouth. You had cursed the weather and then you swore.
We’d built the fire together, building a house out of kindling around a pile of scrunched newspaper. You never liked lighters or gas torches, it was always matches. It scratched a shock up my spin and fizzled as it lit, the flame growing taller even as you moved your hand towards the kindling and newspaper. We watched as the newspaper quickly disappeared, the splintered kindling catching its flame.
I watched as you patiently waited, the pieces of wood growing as you built the fire up until it was cracking and flickering orange light across the room. We didn’t have any lights on, just whatever light was coming through the clouds outside. We took the cushions off the couch and piled them on the floor between the coffee table and the wall, stopping them from sliding all over the place.
You asked me all the places I want to go, and I gave you my list. You asked me why, and I told you. I stared at your face, not hearing a word I was saying. I didn’t even notice when it started to rain.