Transatlanticism

And there we stood huddled under a striped awning, too close for comfort

While our misty breath swirled over our heads in little animated patterns

A dim yellow light cast a gloomy pool of light on our dripping backs

And the soles of our shoes grew steadily moist

You gazed at the gray-black sky you said

You had never walked home in the rain and I laughed

Because I didn’t believe you

Because most of my childhood colds were a direct consequence of

Romantic lonely walks in the park with no umbrella for company

But you was serious

And I was too

So we took that first trembling step awkwardly

Flinching as the concrete mingled with the soggy mud squelched under our shoes

Looking up quivering as if afraid the lightning would strike us down

Because we had dared to step out from the protective awning embryo

With the steps of a newborn you slid and slithered and stumbled in to

The road we had often walked before but never walked before under a sky like this

And the mud that so graciously allowed itself to be trodden upon in the shining daytime

Took gasping revenge during the rain and the wind that whooshed so kindly on hot summer nights

That wind was a cruel force that turned rounded raindrops into little stinging marquees

And it rained and it poured and we trudged in the cold with

Warm rivulets of water flowing from my head down to my face dripping off my fingers to form puddles

Puddles in which we jumped in

Who cares how much these shoes cost?

And the wind even felt friendly after a while the way it whisked your umbrella it seemed like an invitation

To take a detour and so we did

Our clothes stuck to our skin and it made walking a little bit difficult

But I didn’t notice because you were just telling me

How the grass underneath our feet looked so neon green against the blue-gray-black-prussian sky

And how I told you I almost felt sorry for bedraggled crows that squawked helplessly on telegraph poles

But even detours end and we reached far too early far too late

The neighbours shook their heads

Young Love they said

It will all die down some day

The day she finds stacks of dirty magazines or traces of another woman behind the sofa or he finds out what she really looks like in the morning or how old she really is

But for now it’s all good

Just like summer rain.