It's raining outside.
I stand on our little balcony and watch nature rinse the street clean. Our apartment isn't much to look at, but it does have a decent view of the ocean.
A television blares in the apartment above me. To the right, a small child cries. Below, a cigarette burns on a windowsill.
I hear a key turn in the lock, my wife enters. Another long day at the office. She looks tired. She always looks tired.
She remarks how I'm home early. I nod and say how light traffic was.
She asks how my day went. I respond that it was just as fine as any other day and ask about hers.
She flops down on our well-worn couch and kicks off her heals. She gives me a half look to see if I'm going to clue in to the fact that she wants a foot rub.
Instead, I start removing her hosiery with a little twinkle in my eye. She looks a little bothered and tells me it isn't Wednesday yet.
Her perturbed look turns to that of confusion when I slide out of my socks and hand her an umbrella.
She asks what I'm up to - a little smile begins to smear itself across her face.
I pull her up to me, but say nothing. A moment later, we're padding down the apartment's filthy hallway in our bare feet.
Again she asks "just what I think I'm doing," as I pull her out the front door and into the weather. She struggles with the umbrella – I think everything we own is half broken.
She looks to me again only to see me stepping into the largest puddle I can find. There I stand, hands on hips, looking up and off to the side as if I were posing for an old time portrait.
I must look quite the sight as she starts to laugh. She laughs even harder when I start doing my best river dance impression. In truth, I look more like I'm having some sort of stroke, but the desired effect is achieved.
My wife stands in the rain and grins. A moment later, she's in the puddle beside me, flailing around like a mad woman.
I watch the faces of a few of the drivers passing by. Some laugh. Some just look confused.
I 'accidently' splash the wonderful woman beside me. There is a retaliatory splash, then, all out water war.
Fifteen minutes later, shivering, teeth chattering, and soaked past the skin, we re-enter our warm and welcoming little apartment. One hot shower later, the bathtub still holds our soaking apparel.
My wife whispers that she'll start something for dinner. I whisper back that I'm not hungry yet.
The old radio atop the dresser crackles to life. I take the woman I decided to spend my life with, in my arms. A shaft of light from the kitchen is all we need as we slow dance together in the living room.
A television blares in the apartment above us. To the right, a small child cries. Below, a cigarette burns on a windowsill.
It's raining outside.