A breeze from the open window billowed lacy curtains about him as he stood watching the first drops of rain began to bead softly on the glass to fall, misting across his face. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind ripple his hair; licked his lips to taste clean rainwater.

Across the room, she stirred amidst tousled linen sheets, hearing a rumble of thunder overhead. She saw him, starkly outlined against the windows in a flash of lightning, the curtains flowing about him like delicate wings. A muffled pop, and the sulfur stink of a match, and he held fire in his hand, cradled gently against the storm, lighting a cigarette that smelled like spices and ash.

She listened to rain pattering softly beyond him, sat up in bed, pushed her hair back from her face. One hand idly searched through the clutter on the bedside table, found a single-edged razor blade. She smiled, humming to herself as she made first one tiny cut, then another.

She spoke to him as she worked. “I think I’ve become lost, my dear.”

He remained silent, a thinking silence, the tip of his cigarette an orange beacon in the dark. At last he answered. “Just where is it you’re trying to get to, love?”

She frowned, looking up at him, jewel-pink eyes catching the light of another lightning strike. “I’m not really sure I know.”

He looked at her, his face lost in shadows. “Then how can you be lost?”

She smiled again, reached for him, one arm chalky white, the other wrapped around with tiny roses and thorny vines. He went to her, pitching his cigarette out into the storm. He gently kissed a red pearl from her palm, then held her hand and lay, listening to the falling rain
 

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