Every raindrop was a memory of her, the dripping of fresh blood on the tiles. As the clouds poured forth their anger and dismay, I mused, looking beyond the window glass, beyond the yard, fence, fields to somewhere less distinct. She awaited me there. Somewhere in a distant reality displaced from my own, she lingered. I heard her fingernails scratching the storm clouds, her sneers in the gusting wind, her rage in the thunderclaps. Beyond the beyond she grew tempestuous, and I struggled to make her wait.
I placed the knife back in the kitchen draw, folded down my sleeves and left. I’d be back. I always came back. And she’d be waiting.