We made these memories for ourselves.

“Here, hold my suitcase.” The clouds just broke open and a massive amount of water was pouring down on everything, including us. You want to start running towards shelter, to prevent the rain from soaking your Ralph Lauren shirt. I hold your hand and laugh. “Don’t run, stay here in the rain with me!” I spin on my heels and spread my arms. I let my hair fall in my neck as I face the sky, and I feel the drops hit my forehead, my eyelids, my nose, my lips. Within seconds, my summer dress is soaked. My hair is drenched and sticks to my shoulders and back.

You look at me with a mix of wonder and weariness across your face and your hands still clench the handle of my purple trolley in your fist. It’s not water-resistant, but we fail to notice. Your other hand is holding mine, but instead of holding it under a table, a secret to anyone around, you hold it openly, freely, for everyone to see. You are proud to be holding my hand. Our fingers are locked together in a casual “I’ll be holding this hand for the rest of my days” kind of way, so you know it doesn’t matter when I pry my fingers a little looser. I spin around, and pull your arm over my head.

“Dance with me!” I say, as I let you lead me. The handle drops from your hand, and lands in the sand with a gentle thud. We’re the only people around for miles. The rain kicks up a notch, but we notice nothing anymore. Nothing else but the look in each other’s eyes. You lift my hand over yours, spin me around. My dress is wet, but still twirls as I circle around you. Your eyes follow my every move. When I come back around, you pull me close and start to sway softly. I now feel your wet shirt against my naked arms, and I can feel the skin underneath burn through the fabric.

At the horizon, clouds gather and imitate our little intimate dance. They grind, collide, grow more intense. Lightning pierces the twilight sky. You take my other hand and put it on your shoulder, your hand lands in the curve of my side. My skin tingles; flashes of lighting spark from your fingers through my dress. As I lay my head on your shoulder, I start humming a song. I had no idea you knew the song, but you hum it with me. With a freed hand, you gently remove a strand of wet hair from my forehead and kiss the empty place it leaves behind.

This is bliss.

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