By Malka Fleischman
1. It’s summer, and it’s about to rain. The sky is gray and heavy, the air hot and wet. Cecelia has never liked the rain; when she was a little girl, the priest at her church bellowed ominously that rain was God’s tears falling from the sky, here to punish and drench. She feared the wetness and the guilt. In high school, it was raining when she lost her virginity to a boy who would later break her heart into tiny drops of I-told-you-so’s. In college, a boy in her Intro to Religion class said rain was actually God’s semen. Now, a year and a half into grad school, she sits with her legs wrapped around her friend who’s thrusting methodically as she looks outside the window. They go to the same grad school, but he’s closer to finishing. They end up in this predicament because he seduces her, and she is curious what pleasure feels like. The surrender felt feverish in the summer haze, but now it’s about to rain. He buries his face in her breasts. She breathes in sharply, squealing lightly in sporadic pattern. She keeps her eyes focused on the sky, expectant. It’s about to rain.
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