We looked up at the grey thundering sky. Just a minute ago there was sunshine but now the sky was rumbling with billowing clouds. A highveld storm was about to explode, we quickened our pace.
As we walked around the corner, a glimpse of her dad’s black sedan moving into the yard, stopped us. They usually got home after 6 pm but it was only 4 pm. We looked at each other, disappointed at their early arrival and knowing there’d be no getting closer than close. Not today at least.
One raindrop fell, then two, and within seconds we were drenched with summer rain.
Instead of running to her house, we started kissing, it was instinctive. The sweetness of this water forced its way between our lips. As it came down harder she held on tighter, so did I.
That was in 1998. I clearly recall the petrichor and this new sensation of kissing in the rain.
I’m yet to do that again, but I’ve danced Kizomba in the rain a few times. It’s a wonderful, fleeting feeling; it happened on three occasions. At rooftop, those that don’t dance watched in disbelief as a few couples danced in a sudden downpour.
I know that look. I too once felt left out, wanting to dance, wanting to feel that rain, that rhythm, that movement. The awesomeness seemed beyond me.
I can see the FOMO; and once again I am thankful for that Kizomba video I watched, for attending my first class at the Hide, for Baila Afrika, for the gents that welcomed me and for the ladies who allowed me to lead.
Kissing in the rain… but dancing in a downpour is something that comes around once a year, and hopefully again this Sunday.