Learn to dance in the rain

When it thunders deafeningly outside, you won’t think of her anymore.
Or how she used to love the storms.
You’ll push the rotating glass door of her favourite cafe, her favourite Paisley number will greet you inside.
The aroma of THAT cafe au lait will hit you as you take your seat in THAT corner. The smell of those Mocha Caramel Pecan cookies will waft through the clustered confinement. But the smell won’t choke you.

For you will have already forgotten all that by then.

Details.
Unnecessary details elude our lives.

She will be sitting at Flurys, right across the street, facing your cafe.
Glasses on her nose.
Wearing an intent look.
Flipping through her paperback.

Meaning to keep an eye on you?

Is it?

Suddenly her lemongrass perfume.
You can’t forget that. Nay.
You haven’t.

It’s raining outside.
You notice it.
NOW.
Slowly.

‘A woman not yet seen, but whose perfume accumulates on the horizon like a storm cloud.’
( Fernand Dumont)