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Rain in the Valley

It was a long distance call. I could hear the lines grumbling garbage. It sounded as if it were raining down on the window panes at her end.  There were long stretches of silences between sentences. She would ask me a question and then wait for eternity for an answer that would not come. I used to use this silence to imagine where she would be standing. I would picture her in the master bedroom overlooking the valley. I would imagine the dress she would be wearing, the color of her top, the color of her leggings. She had thunder thighs and I fell for them long before I fell for her.

Are you there? I am asking you something... Why don't you respond?

Her bungalow had those brass roof linings which channeled rain water from the roof to run through British gargoyles into a small pond. Some of channels used to leak from the corners. I remember the sound falling rain used to make on the tiled roof and windows. The noise used to be so loud that we had to shout to be heard. We rarely shouted when it rained. She used to calm down, huddle close to me and snuggle into some corners and wedges in me. I loved her in the rains. Actually, I loved her as long as she could keep her trap shut. She had a way of sounding very whiny when she was agitated. She would turn on her lawyer side, and shoot a question a second and wait for me to respond.

Are you there? She asked again.
Yes. I am. Is it raining in the valley again?
What? Have you gone bonkers? Or are you trying to wriggle out of this one?
Tell me D, is it raining outside?
Yes it is. So what? This does not answer my question.
I have no answers to your questions D. Good bye.

Beep beep.

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