Mood like the weather

A wild and windy Sunday afternoon, the gulls are blown around in the air, bobbing and weaving in the golden light, the rain coming in fitful showers, not hard but accompanied by a wind stronger that a breeze and enough to be thankful of the jacket he wears.

The waves crash against the rocks, rumbling up the breakwater, the railings tremble. Driving away, this afternoon's lonely escape was long overdue, clearing his head is long overdue, but his head is not entirely clear.

Every masked walker, stroller, jogger, ambler had a second, sometimes third, glance...why wouldn't it be so, this is her territory, it could be her?

With a sense of almost relief, none were...he is not sure if he is ready to see her today, he wants to, he wants to so much, but he didn't come here today to see her...just being here is enough...he is not ready...

"So why am I parked here? Why am I wanting, needing to see her but too scared to?"

Her dark eyes are questioning but she says nothing.

"What the hell? How am I standing here at her open door, I was just in my car, watching the ocean" he thinks.

"Hi...I...I'm...look...wrong...um, bye" he turns away.

"Tom?"

He turns back.."fuckit" he thinks.

"Look I have no idea why I'm here, it's wrong of me to be here, but...look...ok...I'm going"

"Tom!"

The door closes, behind both of them, inside is warm, outside the clouds release the pent-up deluge that has been threatening all afternoon, like the rain has been waiting and waiting to be released and can wait no longer.

His jacket is wet but she seems not to care as his arm around her waist pulls her to him, she feels warm against him as their lips meet, not tenderly, not carefully, but with the ferocity that he has been feeling for weeks.

Stumbling against the table as they walk backwards, entwined. The tear of the velcro of his jacket being opened, pushed over his shoulders and to the floor. She is holding him tight, so tight, the kissing never stops. His boots kicked off, running his hands up her body, she is pulling at his sweater, over his head, followed by hers. Her hands feel cool against his stomach as she briefly wrestles with his belt and buttons of his jeans...the kissing never stops, now almost with an anger, an intensity she knew was there but had been displayed only in words. The top two buttons of her shirt pop off as his hands tear at her, not stopping, falling with her, on top of her, barely finishing the less than gentle removal of his jeans and realising ("when did he do it, or did I do it? I can't think anymore") she is left only in her deep scarlet briefs.

A rattle on the window, intensifying as the rain becomes hail and a roar of the wind, drowning out all noises but seemingly matching his mood..."this man, this one who I call sweet so often, because he is, but this is not sweet Tom...who IS this?" the thought passes through her mind, being eliminated a second later. He is set on one thing, only one thing...their eyes finally meet for the first time since the front door (an age, but really less than a couple of minutes ago) and she sees the fire, the hunger, the lust...her lips part slightly, a silent gasp, eyes close again as she feels him, a rough, glorious, insane, tender, caring, ferocious feeling. "How can these feelings exist at the same time" she thinks, " this makes no sense, HE makes no sense".

She feels his need for her, a need more than a want, his motion, his "technique" is raw, not driven by care and love, rather by lust and desire but with a connection to her that she does not doubt...this is not love-making, yet it is...and she realises she wants it like this just as much as he...she wants him this way...this is who he is, now, and she is relishing it...barely 20 words have been spoken between them today, but today is not a day for words...