Prologue
From the recess of the darkness he watched her. Why on earth she had been named Rain he would never know. She was a tempest; she was a flurry; she was poetry in motion, and she meant absolutely everything in the world to him and more.
The storm crashed around them in the midsummer night. Thunder pounded out a staccato rhythm in sync with his drumming heartbeat. Lightning lit up the sky, zipping across the heavens—a force to be reckoned with—and still Rain danced, unfazed. Her clothing was saturated, as was his. Water plastered her white shirt to her chest, molding across the generous swell of Rain's breasts.
It was the same dance Telor had watched since he was a boy of eight and Rain was four. Ever since she and her grandparents had moved to his "nothing ever happens" little hick town eighteen years ago. Their houses were on a lonely dirt road, side by side, and backed onto a sparsely wooded forest near a small creek. They shared a gravel driveway that veered into a Y at the end.
Telor had seen Rain dancing from his window that first night many years ago—as he had tonight. Her movements over the years had matured with experience to create a story only she could tell, but didn't seem to know.
Telor remained frozen, hypnotized by her movements. Rain was a flurry of freestyle and ballet. She twirled, then dropped and crawled across the grass. Her movements were painstakingly slow. She let her head fall forward as though something were trying to defeat her.
Then determinedly, or perhaps defiantly, grass was ripped from the ground in chunks as she pulled her hands from the sodden earth. She rolled, jumped to her feet, and leaped gracefully in a grand jeté into the air over a stump. Her luscious legs stretched to their limits, one before her, one behind. Landing, Rain then spun in place with a fouette rond de jambe en tournant.
Around and around she went as the raindrops flew from her as fast as they landed. One deliciously slender foot tucked quickly behind the knee, then down, then up. All the while she whirled in place, making him dizzy as he tried to focus on her beautiful face.
Rain slumped to her hands and knees, remaining motionless for brief seconds while Telor caught his breath from the sidelines. She swung her head right then left in quick succession.
Slowly Rain stood; her body arched forward and went rigid as she let her hands slide sensually up her sides. She was on the move again, faster. She twisted and dropped, then up and spinning. Rain laced her fingers through the long strands of the tall willow tree to her right. Farther ahead she pirouetted. Whirling, turning her feet a batterie as they beat together in the air to the sound of thunder.
Telor felt his heart pound in his ears with the storm as Rain became one with the ferocity of the elements. Her movements were best described as a duende : Rain wasn't one with the dance—she was the dance. One could almost see rhythm flow through her blood with an undenied force. Making him— making him believe in an emotion so powerfully gripping, he went with her on her journey into the unknown…even if it caused his demise with his heart in his throat and his pulse pounding.
Then suddenly down Rain dropped once more and lay still, gasping, her hand to her chest. Telor clutched at his own chest, waiting. His breath caught and held. Oh God . Rain's rise to her feet was heartbreaking—a broken ballerina. With her legs shaking she fluttered her hands, but it was hopeless. Telor's eyes always went teary at this part. Her legs buckled and down she went. "Death of a dancer" was what Telor called this dramatic end.
Rain curled into a tiny ball, then emerged and drifted to her feet. It was as though her spirit came to life. Her gaze was mournful as she cast a woeful glance on where her body would be. Arms across her breasts, head bowed, she took tiny, flittering steps away from the scene as though unwilling to leave—but she had to. When she moved
From the recess of the darkness he watched her. Why on earth she had been named Rain he would never know. She was a tempest; she was a flurry; she was poetry in motion, and she meant absolutely everything in the world to him and more.
The storm crashed around them in the midsummer night. Thunder pounded out a staccato rhythm in sync with his drumming heartbeat. Lightning lit up the sky, zipping across the heavens—a force to be reckoned with—and still Rain danced, unfazed. Her clothing was saturated, as was his. Water plastered her white shirt to her chest, molding across the generous swell of Rain's breasts.
It was the same dance Telor had watched since he was a boy of eight and Rain was four. Ever since she and her grandparents had moved to his "nothing ever happens" little hick town eighteen years ago. Their houses were on a lonely dirt road, side by side, and backed onto a sparsely wooded forest near a small creek. They shared a gravel driveway that veered into a Y at the end.
Telor had seen Rain dancing from his window that first night many years ago—as he had tonight. Her movements over the years had matured with experience to create a story only she could tell, but didn't seem to know.
Telor remained frozen, hypnotized by her movements. Rain was a flurry of freestyle and ballet. She twirled, then dropped and crawled across the grass. Her movements were painstakingly slow. She let her head fall forward as though something were trying to defeat her.
Then determinedly, or perhaps defiantly, grass was ripped from the ground in chunks as she pulled her hands from the sodden earth. She rolled, jumped to her feet, and leaped gracefully in a grand jeté into the air over a stump. Her luscious legs stretched to their limits, one before her, one behind. Landing, Rain then spun in place with a fouette rond de jambe en tournant.
Around and around she went as the raindrops flew from her as fast as they landed. One deliciously slender foot tucked quickly behind the knee, then down, then up. All the while she whirled in place, making him dizzy as he tried to focus on her beautiful face.
Rain slumped to her hands and knees, remaining motionless for brief seconds while Telor caught his breath from the sidelines. She swung her head right then left in quick succession.
Slowly Rain stood; her body arched forward and went rigid as she let her hands slide sensually up her sides. She was on the move again, faster. She twisted and dropped, then up and spinning. Rain laced her fingers through the long strands of the tall willow tree to her right. Farther ahead she pirouetted. Whirling, turning her feet a batterie as they beat together in the air to the sound of thunder.
Telor felt his heart pound in his ears with the storm as Rain became one with the ferocity of the elements. Her movements were best described as a duende : Rain wasn't one with the dance—she was the dance. One could almost see rhythm flow through her blood with an undenied force. Making him— making him believe in an emotion so powerfully gripping, he went with her on her journey into the unknown…even if it caused his demise with his heart in his throat and his pulse pounding.
Then suddenly down Rain dropped once more and lay still, gasping, her hand to her chest. Telor clutched at his own chest, waiting. His breath caught and held. Oh God . Rain's rise to her feet was heartbreaking—a broken ballerina. With her legs shaking she fluttered her hands, but it was hopeless. Telor's eyes always went teary at this part. Her legs buckled and down she went. "Death of a dancer" was what Telor called this dramatic end.
Rain curled into a tiny ball, then emerged and drifted to her feet. It was as though her spirit came to life. Her gaze was mournful as she cast a woeful glance on where her body would be. Arms across her breasts, head bowed, she took tiny, flittering steps away from the scene as though unwilling to leave—but she had to. When she moved
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