The Storm -- A Quiet Fantasy

     We stroll along the beach, looking at the stars twinkling
above.  You run ahead, laughing, splashing in the shallow, gentle
waters on the shore. Neither of us notice the storm moving in
until the deluge begins, at which point, it's too late.  We seek
refuge in the only shelter around, beneath an overhang under a
cliff. 

     Within moments, it's a solid sheet of water cutting us off
from the balance of humanity.  We see nothing, but our clothes,
soaking, begin to steam in the warmth our bodies have trapped. 
We shiver, and you smile. 

    "Let's warm up ..." who suggests it, we say at the same
timeit at the same time ... we laugh, and your eyes darken as our
garments are shed.

    Thunder cracks overhead as we move closer, making us jump. 
You move so delightfully when you're startled.

    Your naked chest glistens in the watery spray thrown back
from the sand -- we make a bed of our clothes, and as the storm
rumbles, we come together.

     Is our passion fueled by the fury of the storm?  We care not
-- save that the storm moves on as we move -- and as its fury
peaks, so do we.

    A blinding flash of lightning -- a whipcrack of thunder --
explosion -- The storm, or us, or both ...

     We lay sated, smiling, touching gently, taking one another
in the sweet afterglow.

     Afterwards, we step naked into the cleansing raing -- the
sweat and fluids removed from our body by the force that allowed
them there.

     Dressing, we watch the storm move away -- blustering into
the west.

     We step out into a world renewed.  Beauty, life -- all
present, all renewed and bright again.

    Shall we go for a stroll?