Rain patters on the windowsill. I peek out the blinds just in time to catch a glimpse of a bright streak of lightening across the dark sky. I clinch my teeth and duck my head as the
loud clap of thunder follows the lightening strike. I feel foolish for having this knee-jerk reaction. So silly. It’s just a spring storm. It popped up suddenly and I’m sure it
will end just as quickly. The droplets of water make little puddles in the craters of the asphalt. I watch intently as the oversized drops plop against the ground. “I hate mud,” I
grumble softly to myself. What a silly statement. How can you hate something so commonplace as mud? I do, though.
The rain begins tapering off just as quickly as it began. The sound of thunder has been replaced by the clatter of pots and pans. I rise from my spot on the couch and wander into
the kitchen to find my partner beginning dinner. Taco salad night. I move to her side silently and she turns her face to offer her cheek to me. I lean in and kiss it lightly;
brushing my lips against her soft skin. “Storm’s over,” I mumble around the piece of tomato I’ve just popped into my mouth.
“That was quick.” She continues fussing with the meat, stirring it to break it into crumbles. I survey the kitchen. The counter is covered in little piles of vegetables;
tomatoes, lettuce, onions, bell peppers. I smile to myself. Her organization always amuses me. A place for everything and everything in its place. Even the vegetables aren’t
immune to her need to arrange things so they are aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
My ears prick up at the sound of a distant rumble. The storm has moved on but it’s left the thunder trailing behind. “Can I help?” I reach for a pepper this time and her hand
darts out quickly. She lightly bats me away from the perfect little piles she’s worked so hard on. I pout and draw my hand back, pretending to be hurt by her playful admonishment.
“You can help by leaving the veggies be and getting down some plates. The meat is almost ready.” I’ve knocked one of the peppers out of place. She’s rearranging the pepper
pile as the words fall out of her pretty mouth. I can’t help but laugh a little. It bubbles up and comes out as a short “Ha!” She gives me “the look” and I bite back my
laughter. I hide my smile behind the open cabinet door while I’m reaching for the plates.
I set them down carefully on the counter. She’s so picky about the dishes. They were her great aunt’s. I wonder, sometimes, if she loves me as much as those
dishes. “Dinner looks great, babe.” My stomach rumbles hungrily while I watch her begin making our plates. Careful piles of lettuce topped with meat, cheese, veggies. Her
graceful hands work quickly and before I know it, the salads are ready. I drizzle just a little taco sauce over mine and hand the bottle to her. Our fingers brush.
I feel the electricity between us. Ever present, even after all these years together. I glance up at her. She’s watching me. I smile broadly and give her a wink. She
blushes and giggles girlishly. That giggle. I call her Betty Rubble sometimes. She pretends not to like it, but I know better. It’s just another part of our dance.
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