Impressionism Blog Post: Downpour

Suppose I were to say to you that a fortress was only as strong as the cement that fastened its walls, and that a passing rain could wear down the battlements just enough to secure a ladder for an invading army. My relationship of four years is just that, tender to the bone and passed on in a silent evening. Dear Christine weathers me as best she can, besotted as I am by untended stoves just past the corner of my eye. Some days all I see within her are the bare white walls of our second floor apartment, the clumps filtered through the cat litter, the grit embedded in the rug. Some days, there is all but a blinding glare searing a spot through the blinds, a new kiss flashing in my vision with every blink. We lash out our blame at one another, seeking out the creature closest enough to savor pain in the knotted pit of a hungry stomach. Money is so much water left in glistening trails, spare puddles soaked into towels under the bathroom sink. The arguments of our neighbors wash over our nights, wriggle into every creak of the slats under the bed. Each caress hides the ferocity of a bare palm, a pointed finger, the sweetly pinch of love handles and a curled thud against the thigh, restrained by naught but a litany of sins we hold one against another. Empty at the core, we fill each other as a passing thunder penetrates the screen in an open window, unite as droplets on a resin tabletop. We embrace, and the droplets meet in freefall. There is no bottom.