We were sitting in the disused airport when the storm came. We were sitting beneath the wreck of old pirate ships and the sculptures of hungry crows. We could see the storm approaching long before it arrived.
A greenish-black mushroom cloud sat in the midst of the sunset like a smudge of evil spirits in a gas lamp at dusk. Light spilled from the edges, while the smudge sank to the horizon and squatted malevolently.
We did not mind its malevolence. In the distance, the storm was a well-timed aperture that made the snapshot of the evening sublime.
On the runway beside us, a man walked into focus. He was grinning, the string of a kite in his hands.
As we sat, the broken sails of the pirate ships began to flap. A tack-tack-tack of beating rags. Still, when the first rain hit us, we were cocky as the spinning wheels of skateboards. We glanced to the heavens and we swore it would pass us by.
This moment it was drizzle and the next we were pelted with sumo raindrops, drops like fat angry bees protecting the hive.
Thunder cleared his throat. Lightning leapt the high dive and performed a triple pike. Under the whims of the wind, our wine bottle teetered.
We stood up. In the expanse of the airport, all unfurling runways and higgledy allotments, our heads were the highest conductors. In bare feet and wallpaper paste, I walked towards the tarmac.
It was still hot to stand upon. While the ground slammed against the raindrops – like ’50s teenagers learning the twist – it was still hot, I swear.
We passed the man with the kite, who was cackling.
He was laughing about tomorrow’s newspapers, and playing an infinite poker with the sky.