“Dancing in the Rain”
by Kathryn Haig
“It looks like rain. We need a good rain,” my husband says, a chipped mug quivering in his arthritic hands as he pours hot coffee into the cold ceramic. I look down at my own fingers, twisted and warped like country roads, my joints swollen roundabouts over which my wedding ring no longer fits. The pointer that once rested comfortably on F-Sharp indicates the floor when I give directions, my thumb folds in on itself as if too tired to stand up straight – Would I be able to catch the mug if he drops it again? Would I be able to catch him if he falls? – and my little finger reminds me of my back: permanently slouched despite decades of impeccable posture on stage, sitting tall on the piano bench, playing Mozart and Bach and Brahms for people who sought to be cultured.
I was beautiful then, with my dark hair, my porcelain skin, and the Revlon lipstick I bought because I wanted to be like Dorian Leigh. Black as ebony, white as snow, red as blood, the man I married used to whisper, his lips brushing my ear and neck, his hands steady as he spun and dipped me in the open air, his fingertips tracing my brow, running down my cheek and over the taut skin of my neck … skin that sags now.
Slippered feet shuffle as my husband makes his slow way to the refrigerator. When he opens it, a woman stares at me from the silver surface, her face a map of thin lines. A soft groan escapes my lips.
His head emerges from behind the door.
“What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that we never used to talk about the rain unless we were dancing in it.
He looks on, brow furrowed, head tilted, chin jutted quizzically, while I lift a shaky finger to my cheek. The woman in the door lifts one too.
I blink. She blinks.
I frown. She frowns.
I think. She watches, my husband watches, every audience I’ve ever played for watches. I think about roads and rivers, maps and rings, warm wrinkles versus cold porcelain, and I come to a conclusion.
She agrees.
We sigh, and she disappears.
“Nothing,” I say. “A good rain would be nice.”
