I want to tell you something, so listen.

Every time it starts to rain, I would like to have sex. I’ve felt this way since before I knew what sex was. When I was a child and it began to rain I removed myself quietly from the company of guests and went upstairs and crawled into my parents’ bed to roll their scents onto my skin. I nuzzled my cheek into Mother’s gentle silk pillow and smelled her hair and hugged my arms around Father’s rough-seeming flannel and felt his beard on my lips when he would kiss me goodnight. I was allowed this pleasure because I was a good child. Silent. Not too thoughtful to make trouble. Sometimes when the windows of the tea house are pelted with rain that appears at a side-angle I flush and perspire under my arms and on my upper lip and at the nape of my neck and I must put down my three-tiered stand of Lemon Raspberry Napoleons and Vanilla Bean Madeleines and Mini White Chocolate Cinnamon Glazed Gingerbread Donuts and sit at one of the dining room tables in the corner farthest from the windows and tremble as I wait. Sometimes the seat is still warm from the body of a departed guest. When lightning comes I press two fingers to my neck and count the thud of my heartbeats until the thrill of thunder. Once a bird hit a window and I went to the glass and touched the smudge. Unable to see where it fell, I went outside and dropped to my knees in the dirt and picked up the animal and cradled it. It was heavier than I had thought it would be. Its feathers sharper, but its wings still warm. I kissed its belly and set it down then sat back against the brick and let the rain ruin my mascara. With the smell of the dirt and grass beneath me I thought that someone somewhere must be like me, must also be standing or sitting in a storm with her arms straight out, palms turned toward God, and I felt in the pit of my pelvis a pang or a push not unlike the rush and flutter of initial penetration, and I imagined you inside and waiting for me in the kitchen, our air heavy with the odor of stew.