Dancing in the Rain

I remember. He used to smell of the fresh air that was thrown around by the crashing of the sea, tinged with the tang of salt. We would run around for hours with the dog down at Brighton Beach, we would eat ice cream until our stomachs ached and lay for hours looking up at the sky, pebbles shifting to the shape of our bodies. Sometimes we would dream about the future, we decided to live in Brighton forever and open a patisserie in the lanes.

One night on our walk home he had this idea to head into a newsagent and to photocopy our arms. He handed me the print of mine, my fingers were splayed and he said… “Will you marry me?” I screamed yes and we ran out of the shop and started dancing in the rain, childish you may say or cliche but it felt satisfying. We were singing and smiling, spinning like a carousel. We were foolish, not looking where we were going. He ended the dance of our life by pirouetting out into the road and I never saw him again. I keep the photocopy of my hand as a reminder of him, of our future.