Juliana hurried. What had been a beautiful summer day hiking the Appalachian Trail was quickly turning into a weather event. She had been completing portions of the trail as her schedule allowed, but lately her progress had been hit and miss. The approaching thunder had an ominous, low rumble that seemed to resonate within her. Her hike was about to be scrapped. Again.

Juliana finally located a trail shelter and quickly entered. A strong gust ripped the door from her grasp and flung it all the way open. She swore and pushed it shut behind her, relieved to have reached some semblance of safety from the coming storm.

“Looks like you made it just in time,” a deep male voice spoke.

Juliana turned around and squinted as her vision adjusted to the dim interior of the shelter. A man sat on the floor with his back propped against his pack. He was writing in a small leather journal. As she shrugged off her own pack, the stranger put his journal aside and rose to his feet. He approached her and offered an outstretched hand, “Arlo.” The timbre of his voice had the same effect on her as the approaching thunder: it somehow was felt more than heard.

She ignored that odd feeling and accepted his hand, “Juliana.”

Zings of electricity instantly flowed between them as they touched. It felt like a strong static shock, but instead of hurting, it felt… good? Juliana quickly pulled her hand away and stepped back.

“Whoa! That was weird, right?” She laughed nervously and rubbed one hand against the other.

Small branches were thrown onto the shelter's metal roof with a noisy clatter. Arlo glanced upward and shook his head, “Not weird at all. These conditions are ideal for energy exchange. Energy stored must be energy released at some point,” he looked at her and continued, “within the atmosphere and perhaps between humans, too...” he trailed off thoughtfully, slowly rubbing his hands together as well. Breaking eye contact, he ran a hand through his hair and gave a self-conscious laugh as he blushed.

He has great hair…I wish I could run my hands through it. Juliana mused.

It was now her turn to blush. The uncharacteristic, intrusive thought caught Juliana off guard.

Really? You've known him, what? A full two minutes? She admonished herself until she felt appropriately guilty.

“Juliana,” Arlo began to ask her something when another thought suddenly occurred to him, “your name…”

“Yeah, but no one calls me that. Everyone has always called me—”

“Jules,” Arlo interjected.

“Yeah! How- How did you know that it would be ‘Jules’ and not ‘Julie’?” She could not hide her surprise.

“Huh… I don't know. Just a guess. It really does suit you, though.” Arlo rubbed his chin with an amused and oddly pleased look on his face. Jules was confused by his reaction, but didn't ask.

Wanting to change the subject, yet hopeful to continue their conversation, Jules queried, “So… what do you do for a living?” She immediately cursed herself inwardly for going with such a generic question.

Arlo watched her kaleidoscope of facial expressions and laughed good-naturedly, “It's okay. I study atmospheric thermodynamics.”

“Okay. I can't even pretend I know what that is,” Jules laughed, “but can I guess what it has to do with?”

“Of course,” Arlo nodded, adjusting his glasses.

“Hmm… Meteorology? As in… weather prediction type stuff?” Jules playfully ventured.

“Not exactly. It's a branch of physics that studies the relationship between heat and energy— other things too, but I'm most fascinated in the transfer of energy that occurs in nature. So, today happens to be my favorite kind of day.” Almost on cue, thunder crackled and boomed, rattling the windows. Arlo grinned and continued, “You see, I track energy anomalies and there have been several strong, but sporadic readings in this area. I feel like I may have isolated a pattern, but it is too early to tell. I am here on vacation to hike, but also do research if the opportunity presents itself.”

They sat on the floor, facing one another. Arlo again leaned against his pack and Jules against hers. Despite their awkward start, they both now felt at ease. Without further prompting, Arlo began to explain thermodynamic theory to Jules. He was quite animated while describing his life's work.

Despite the fact Jules found Arlo to be highly intelligent and incredibly articulate, she understood very little of what he was telling her. However, what caught and held her attention was the manner in which Arlo spoke. Jules had never heard anything technical be expressed so eloquently and passionately. To her ear, his words sounded like scientific poetry— if such a thing existed. She felt like she could listen to him speak for hours.

She felt a hum growing between them as he spoke. It felt like a warm magnet, sensuously fluctuating and pulling at her center. Pulling her toward him in a most intimate manner.

Am I losing my mind, or is he feeling this too?

It was at this point that Jules became mesmerized by Arlo’s mouth. She became entranced by the way his lips moved; she couldn't help but stare. She eventually felt strangely jealous of each spoken word, each uttered syllable— if only she could be caressed by his tongue and lips like that…

Vivid images of his handsome face buried in her lap while both her hands grasped his hair came to her mind like a lightning strike. She blushed and looked away, but the image remained.

Okay, this is crazy. Stop, you perv.

But Jules did not stop. This time she welcomed the intrusive thoughts and embraced the resultant heat that flooded her body. Her mouth watered, her heart raced, and her breath rate increased. Her nipples hardened and eventually, the throbbing slickness between her thighs became impossible to ignore. She adjusted how she was sitting, but the unavoidable rubbing only made the ache worse.

The last few synapses in her brain that were not lust-infused attempted to reason with her:

Perhaps there is a scientific explanation. Is it somehow related to this storm? Would Arlo know? I mean, he is a scientist after all. But… what if this can't be explained?

And then suddenly, Jules didn't care anymore what the reason might be. She leaned toward him, the pull now too strong to resist. Outside, the storm intensified. Its insistence to be known was now in tandem with her need.

Arlo had stopped talking and looked deeply into her eyes. What she saw mirrored her own desire and fascination. It was obvious to Jules that he was indeed feeling the powerful attraction, too. He was as smitten as she and his arousal was as achingly present as hers. He could not hide it if he tried and he had no intention of doing such a thing. Heavy sheets of rain lashed at the window as they slowly leaned toward each other.

As lips parted and tongues met, the most spectacular sensation surged through them both. It was stronger and much more sensual than the zing from their earlier handshake. Whatever few reservations they were still holding to were now completely abandoned. They impatiently fumbled with and tore at one another's clothes with desperate hunger. They broke from kissing only when absolutely required.

Everywhere their bare skin touched, erotic electricity snapped and sizzled. Tendrils of supernatural longing raced and spiraled between and within them like currents. Their senses moved together as if they were celestial dance partners following ancient choreography only the two of them were ever destined to know.

Arlo's eager hands cradled Jules' bare cheeks and lifted her onto the countertop in one fluid movement. Her arms and legs reached to greedily encircle him as he moved toward her with animal intensity. The storm that ensued between the two rivaled the raw beauty of the summer storm raging around them.

The power that had been unleashed that day changed the landscape of all they thought they knew. As they continued to explore the principles of thermodynamics together, Arlo was confident he had at last located the source of the anomaly.

They learned everything that energy release between two humans was meant to be.

In theory, and in practice.

Clarence scoped the Ohio landscape. The sun was rich and luxurious over his chest as he tossed his blue broadcloth button down over an outcrop of rock.

Cluster, like any town, for miles, was as flat as an empty palm. It had vestiges amid those fruited plains where trees perched instead of corn, and deer could hide. Half a dozen acre parcels in these parts that were an oasis for wild life, even the human kind. Day or night.

When they'd been teenagers, he'd been one to sneak over, evenings, with a girl like Rhonda or Jacqueline. He slid his hands in reverse into his back jeans patch pockets and arched into the sunset.

Good times.

Ssnapk!

His carnal remembrances of chortling brunettes shut by the crack of a stiff twig. Clarence twisted his head sharply to the left. He was a free man now, but guilty conscience still had him on the run. Unsettled business.

It was a woman. Young.

She was three yards off and hadn't seen him. He smiled at her lack of caution. No natural instinct. Funny he hadn't heard her approaching sooner. He furrowed his smooth tanned brow. She'd been crying. Blonde, petite, and a stormy kind of carriage.

His kind of weather.

He liked them kind of bovine. Passionate and dumb. She stumbled forward, eyes downcast, heading towards the edge where he now reclined, back against a slim sweet gum. The heel of his right boot digging into the delicate trunk.

"Well, hullo there."

She started a bit. Eyes forest green. She did the involuntary lip lick, taking him in and he stifled a smirk, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch. He could have her panties off in three moves, he thought to himself, with the right words. Could make a sport of it. See how long it would take.

He could hear her breathing in the unnatural silence cutting through the woods.

Suddenly, he recognized her. The colored feature section, the business column, community service, portrait shot; the Cell Tower mogul with his arm charmingly around the shoulders of his daughter.

Play his cards right, with reserve, and she could be useful for several fronts. A ticket back into civilization, as it were.

The wind changed direction. Clouds rolling in offering reprieve.

He ran his tongue through his cheek, trying to cover his delight.

"You from round here?"

Adrienne stepped out and onto the veranda. It was an unusually warm evening, indicative of an early southern spring, and she hoped to catch a breeze from the river that ran alongside the mansion. Even though Adrienne had not yet danced, her face behind the mask was misted with perspiration, and she could feel beads of the same running between her breasts beneath the eighteenth-century costume.

Always looking for a reason to throw a party, her eccentric but dear friend, Angelique, was hosting tonight’s masquerade ball. As a result, Adrienne knew the celebration would continue well into the wee hours of the morning, leaving many a drunken and weary individual in its wake. At the moment, she was content to escape both the heat and the drunken revelry inside by seeking seclusion on the veranda. It was serenely quiet and the slightest coolness of a breeze drifted in to float lazily across its length.

Angelique had insisted on arranging a date for Adrienne although it was with someone whom she had not met whose name was Jean-Luc. In her own playful way, and since everyone would be wearing a mask, Angelique had insisted Jean-Luc must seek Adrienne out amidst the other guests. Vases of vibrant, gold marigolds filled the large mansion and tables in each room were laden with the same. Thus, once Jean-Luc thought he had found Angelique, he would need to pluck one and offer her a single, golden marigold as a way to both reveal himself and to validate her identity. It was a fun ploy and also offered Adrienne a choice in the matter since she need not reveal herself if she were not so inclined. She sighed. Chances were slim, anyway, that Jean-Luc would find her. Her chances at love had been dismal of late, so one more failed attempt would make little difference, she mused.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning lit the sky. Despite the warmth of the evening, Adrienne shivered. Hairs on the nape of her neck rose and she realized she was not alone. Turning abruptly to search for who might be there, she glanced about the darkened veranda until she stifled a gasp. A tall, lone figure slowly emerged from the shadows.

“Excuse me. Did I frighten you?” a deep voice drifted across veranda, oddly reminiscent of a cold winter’s air. Adrienne shivered unexpectedly. She saw the stranger wore a mask, but the semblance of a smile was still visible beneath it. She wondered if it was a smile of irony opposed to sincerity. How strange. What could this man, a complete stranger, possibly find ironic in about her?

“No, it's fine....I'm fine,” she stammered, a bit nervous despite the irritation she felt. “You just caught me off guard. I thought I was alone – just looking for a bit of cool air.” And with a strong desire to also avoid all those drunks inside, she mentally added.

The stranger drew nearer, choosing to stand only a few steps away from Adrienne on the veranda alongside the wrought iron fence that ran its length. “Me as well,” he nodded. “The air is much cooler here, is it not?” he asked, sensing her irritation. Amused, he smiled and turned to gesture toward the ballroom before he added, “But alas, I must confess. I, too, desired to escape the drunken souls inside.”

Adrienne absentmindedly nodded, aware that this man’s presence seemed to permeate the entire length of the veranda even though he was not unusually large individual. Moreover, and more importantly, had the man just read her mind? It would be impossible for him to do that, would it not? A room of drunken souls, after all, was an easy observation during a night of partying, especially in New Orleans.

Taking a large sip from her glass of wine, Angelique took note of the fact the stranger had also chosen to wear the requested eighteenth-century costume attire, but his had surely cost a small fortune it was so splendid and believable. Nervously, she smoothed the skirt of her own costume, very self-conscious that what she wore was not nearly as authentic.

“You look quite lovely,” the stranger said. “It's as though you've stepped from the pages of a classic French novel.” His voice was melodic, lyrical, nearly hypnotic.

Adrienne glanced up at him, surprise etched across her face. He must be joking. Interestingly enough, that was twice now he had commented on that about which she had been thinking. Was this man real or was the wine wreaking havoc with her thought processes?

“You can’t be serious,” she said emphatically. “At least, not while you look as though you’ve just stepped from the pages of an Anne Rice novel. Monsieur Lestat, I presume?”

She laughed lightly. “That’s quite a handsome costume you wear. You are the epitome of a French nobleman.”

Somewhat surprised, the stranger lifted a brow, but the semblance of another ironic smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you I do not jest, chère - you look divinely French,” he said. “As for me, I am only wearing a piece of dusty fabric I pulled from an old box in my attic.”

Adrienne eyed him with obvious distrust and a bit of curiosity before being distracted by a rowdy group of people crossing the street. When she returned her gaze to the man, she found, though only minimal, he had drawn nearer. She could now see crystal blue eyes behind the mask and strands of thick, dark hair tied in a neat queue at his nape. Yes, he was every inch the French nobleman as he held a glass of what looked to be Merlot. The drink momentarily stained his lips whenever he drank of it. He stood so close it was easy to see he was quite handsome, and she could not help but wonder what he would look like unmasked. Thus far, he had been too mysterious, but the intrigue persisted and she would very much like to see his face.

“Are you from New Orleans?” he asked while taking another sip of the rich, red wine. His blue eyes were penetrating, observant of every detail. They made her nervous.

“Yes, I’ve always lived here. What about you?”

“I was born in Paris and lived there for many years,” he answered.

“Paris? Really? You have no accent,” Adrienne observed.

“I’ve lived in the States for a long time,” he responded and took another sip of his drink. “As a result, I fear I’ve lost what accent I had.”

Adrienne eyed him skeptically. The man could be no more than thirty-five or so, but she decided he very much posed as a French nobleman despite the lack of accent. In this matter, she would give him the benefit of the doubt.

“How long have you lived in New Orleans then?”

“Long enough to lose my accent, chère” he quickly replied, smiling and giving her a wink. “And what do you do, ma petite, when you’re not looking as though you leapt from the pages of a French novel?” he teased. “As for me, I deal in antiquities.”

Adrienne hesitated before answering his last question. Was this man evading her questions with more questions posed for her? He was proving to be very mysterious despite the intrigue.

“I’m a writer – or rather, I should say I’m attempting to be a writer, but still to no avail,” Adrienne said with a laugh.

“Oh, but I am sure that what you’d write would be well worth reading,” the stranger replied.

Adrienne laughed again, scoffing at his words. She was about to respond with something completely flippant, but the look in his gaze gave her pause. He was dead serious. The intensity of his gaze gave her pause, leaving little doubt as to his belief what he'd said was factual. Embarrassed, she stared at her feet in an attempt to gather her thoughts. This man was making her more self-consciously aware than any other had in a long while. Despite the heat of the night and for reasons unbeknown, chills covered her body.

Beneath the mask, Jean-Luc watched the stain of a blush creep as it crept across her cheeks. He felt the shiver that ran through her as though it ran through him. She was lovely, quite enchanting. Angelique could have paired him with any of her silly, vapid female acquaintance, but she had known this one was special. He was anxious to learn more about this woman before him. It had yet to be revealed whether she would be someone with whom he could share his darkest secrets – the secrets derived from living many centuries as a vampire who was created in the dark streets of eighteenth-century Paris. He was for a new beginning. This one was no mindless female, but an astute, intelligent, and attractive one beyond even her own awareness. She very well might be the new beginning he sought.

Despite the shiver, Adrienne nervously fanned herself with the dainty fan adorned with hand-painted violets that was part of her costume. She lifted the wine glass and eagerly drained it of its content while the man who had emerged from the shadows stood by her, watching every move she made. She felt the warmth of the wine sensuously move through her, easing a bit of the nervousness she felt even though he continued to peruse her like a book. She knew alarms should be sounding, but strangely enough, she was no longer afraid. Instead, a cool calmness filled her. She was thoroughly and undeniably intrigued. Perhaps the wine added to the allure, but still, she was drawn to him much like a moth to the flame. She wanted to know his secrets, his desires, and his ways, and she knew he had stories that would keep her interested for years.

“Is something wrong? May I get you another glass of wine?” he asked, smiling seductively. She instinctively knew he was aware of why she shivered so.

“No, I’m good, I promise. Thank you though,” she lied. Was it her imagination or had he drawn even closer than only moments ago? His nearness was much like a beacon of light beckoning her to the unknown.

“I want to be sure you’re fine,” he said and placed a hand lightly on her forearm. His touch was eerily cool even in the warmth of night. Instantly, at his touch her response was visceral, moving through her like electricity. Without a doubt, she knew he felt it, too.

Of a sudden, she realized he had happened again. This was three times now he had seemed to read her thoughts. How strange! She drew back and studied him, clearly confused by the moment. “Am I so easy to read?” she asked in a low voice laced with disbelief as she gave him the faintest trace of a smile.

He cocked a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, feigning ignorance.

She reached up to touch his left temple, feeling the thickness of hair beneath her slender fingers. His skin, like his touch, was decidedly cool despite the warm night and the heavy costume. How the bloody hell did he manage to stay cool, calm, and collected despite those things? Indeed, how did he manage to exude such confidence and also read her thoughts? Who the devil was this man?

Jean-Luc watched her, his eyes becoming such a deep blue they were nearly pools of black ink. There was no denying the voracity created by her mere touch. Moreover, did she not know how undeniably easy to read she was. There was no need of his ability to ascertain thoughts, no need to compel her with his will. It was as though he had known this woman all the years he had walked the earth.

“You seem able to pull my thoughts into that handsome head of yours and make me aware of your game. How is such a thing possible? Are you some creature from the depths of my imagination?” Adrienne asked, her voice a scarce whisper in the darkness.

He was keenly aware of her words and her nearness. The temptation was mounting. He was sorely inclined to make known to her precisely what kind of creature he was, thereby tossing caution to the wind to taste of her sweet nectar. And oh, but he already knew from her prevailing aroma that her blood would taste utterly divine.

Of a sudden, a voice drifted across the veranda, interrupting them in the midst of their conversation.

“Oh, Adrienne, dear, I’ve found you at last. I’ve been looking for you,” Angelique’s voice rippled from the doorway. “Oh, how splendid! I see you've met Jean-Luc. Well done my friends – you look as lovely together as I knew you would!” And with a look of smug satisfaction, Angelique turned, disappearing into the crowded room.

Amazed by her friend's revealing words, Adrienne turned to face Jean-Luc. He stared back with, if possible, an even more confident look of sardonic amusement.

“Jean-Luc?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. Could the world suddenly have aligned to bring this man her way? She was afraid to think on the matter too much for fear it would not be so.

Jean-Luc watched her with renewed interest. Leaning forward, the coolness of his body brushed against her as he reached to pluck a golden marigold from the table behind her. He found it brightly tinged with a deep, crimson red and wondered at the premonition. It was an oxymoron, a foreboding, and an omen.

Adrienne leaned against him. All rational thought evaded at his nearness. She wanted more, so much more. All warmth left her body as she seemed to draw from the coolness running through his body. She was filled with a dawning awareness. It was coldly splendid in its welcoming embrace, and she sighed, rejoicing at the prospects found in the darkness and moonlight.

Jean-Luc sensed Adrienne's attraction, felt the heat of initial fear leave her body to be replaced with a cool, liquid sensation of desire. Unable to stop himself, his gaze dropped to her neck and the pulse within that beat so strongly. He released the coolness of his breath against her ear, felt her shiver anew with desires she did not realize resided within. Reluctantly, he drew backwards, his gaze dropping to the marigold he held. He slowly extended lifted it between them, aware that the blood colored crimson color seemed to seep from the flower's core, predominantly covering its once yellow petals.

“Might I offer you a marigold, sweet Adrienne? Come, mon amour, 'tis a key masked as a flower on this night of masquerade. You will find it opens dreams to a long awaited eternity.”

Do you remember that one hot summer?

...We'd felt a strange pull towards church.

We took a walk in the afternoon with that one sole intent:

To try each church door we passed...  See if we could get in.

We kissed several locks, as the expression goes...

and wondered about the openness of the House of God. 

Then we turned the knob to the Lutheran cathedral, without expectation, and it gave way, and groaned... 

We stepped in.

Between the cool dark hewn boulder walls, we were not sure where we'd landed.

When our sights adjusted, we were in the side chapel... not the church proper.

There was a baptismal font, simple and central.

We eyed its beauty. We couldn't help ourselves and fingered the white marble with silver veins, in the dim light. The sparkling gold fixtures, and plumbing, and the adjacent small service alter led our eyes across the room, further into the dark.

Yes, there was an organ. Along the far wall, its pipes extending overhead. Stunning.

For so small a space, Extravagant; but true. And we didn't dare reach across, to play, lest the noise alert anyone. 

We were conscious of trespassing.

I stood rooted to my spot, lifting only my lids to take in the magnificence of the place. Looking up, the ceiling was celestial, vaulted, as in the undercurve of a dome.

A cool breeze was whipping the painted cirrus clouds over pristine cobalt. 

There were no putti, only us... floating on clouds, ephemeral.

Rose of Sharon anointment in the air... I determined to make that scent mine. 

Ours.

Maybe we felt like making love. 

You drew away from us with respect for me and propriety, letting go of my hand...

and I gave you space as you leaned into a pew. Praying for our future no doubt. I watched your profile, silhouetted from the light filtering behind, falling warm... in reds, yellows and blues... down from the high stained-glass windows. 

If you didn't have so much esteem for me, you would have laid me down nude across that marble alter and we would have been sanctified, skin of our skins pressing deep, orificed... mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth. 

I didn't pray. It has something to do with my father's death, and you said, once outside, in the sunlight, that you understood though you wished it were otherwise, almost. 

Almost, because that would rewrite our script, wouldn't it...

 ...and would we have it any other way?

I went back to that church. On my own.

I knelt in the place as I remembered it. My profile aligned with the outline left in memory, fitted as we are, now.

I took note of the stations of the cross. Heavy and notched. I hadn't noticed them then. I made the customary blessing: in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Time passing, as it does.

Bowing my head... I am grateful you are doing as well as you are in your job, and for all your successes. It's why you are not with me for the moment. 

The place doesn't have the coolness it did.

It has heat, this time. 

I don't talk to God. We have moved passed that in personal relationship.

We sit, in each other's presence. Silent.

Me in him. Him in me.

I ask for nothing.

My notion of sin has changed accordingly. 

The very concept is the Sin itself, and all It touches, consequentially tinged. 

It was my high school creative writing teacher Ms. Specter who once told us a pathos ladened drama of her maiden trip to Greece, in which a Greek romantic had climbed up the trellis to her balcony and stood naked before her in his torched desire— horrified when she turned on the light!-— having entered through the wrong window. And she said with lascivious grin, if you don't know what it means to "smell a man, then sorry!" ...giggling, Victorianly. 

I recall this because, suddenly I smell Man, made flesh. The scent of arousal so strong, I sense it through clothing and across distance. My eyes closed.

I lift my countenance, still kneeling. Your tallness means that I am face-to-face with your pressing invitation. Wordlessly, your eyes say a man should steal away from daily obligations once and again to meet his mate, half-way.

I unclasp my hands and unbuckle and unbutton you. The zipper descends partly by some invisible encouragement... as with the Will of nature. 

Have we had this fantasy before?

I know you like to watch me... work you over.

Hand to mouth.

It's not a hunger. It's indulgence, like ice cream. I linger on your hardness as the treat that it is, and not some vegetable side dish, pushed around at a tiresome formal dinner party, on the tick of company dime. 

You don't dare touch me. It's not part of your paradigm, yet, in this sacred setting.

I touch myself for you. Skirting like seashell, parting at the rim, ruffled. It's pink and green with cream. You picked the dress yourself and pause to admire its full effect...

And the glowing ecstasy in my face.

I guide your idle arm toward my body, and you begin to explore it like a parched man upon a deserted isle, lapping supple hills up to the laced thongs. You know all at once what it means when a woman fills the cup of your hands, with abundance, in a movement overflowing like a sonata.

It's a boundary in this sanctuary that you thought we would not cross, but you've accepted that a different kind of holiness is possible, in the eyes of God.

Or maybe it's because we are already consummated.

I don't disconnect. The pulse of pleasure is too strong. You run your lips in waves along my slender right arm and reach for the center of my body, moist and hallowed. You ease a strong thumb to clit and press forefinger across the petals of the slit, soft and melted, slipping in gently to check my pulse as it quickens to your tender manly touch.

I can hear you call for me, soundlessly, in this holy space:

Come for me, baby...

...and it's instantaneous, my release prompting yours, and I draw your essence down my throat taking in every last drop, as pure white chocolate syrup, till you are emptied.

I finish. And cross myself in your spirit.

I am alone, and the chill of the place is as it was... that one hot summer.

I gather my purse and fix my dress.

I'm glad we came, even if, only by myself... this time.

The rain started coming down in sheets. I'm worried when you read that, you'll think: "Oh, it started raining." No. One second it was dry and overcast, and the next second my dress was drenched.

I was listening to music on my iPod, and then suddenly I was running.

What is music, if not something we run with - towards something, away from something?

2014 tasted a lot like steam, the kind that rises from the ground, in the second before it all comes crashing down.

Someone once said you go broke suddenly, and then all at once. Or maybe that's when you're drunk. It's simple: the way the heat changes ever so slightly; lift a finger, and you can taste the rain coming.

You can literally taste the weather changing, and later in California, I learned that the sun can burn you to a crisp, but nothing like New England thunderstorms exist.

I didn't have an umbrella. I was about ten blocks from my house. I dodged under trees, under bushes. To no avail. It was like God himself was suddenly as self-aware as I was.

My friend has a tattoo that says, "This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time." That's from Fight Club. Lift a finger and you can taste the truth of it.

I wanted more. I wanted California, I wanted a new life. But in memories like this thunderstorm, I miss the randomness of New England. How the whole world, and your place in it, could literally change in a single second.

How my old life was literally ending in single seconds.

But was I ready for change? Or just a new dress, a dry place to hang my turbulent past?

I moved to California and now my memories of New England, in a single second, can suddenly illuminate, like when you see the strike of lightning and wait the many seconds to hear the clap of thunder coming.