Darkness looms from a canopy of cumulonimbus clouds as February strips down to the skin. She slides her panties down to her ankles, dancing naked for a frightened milksop of a man. The tempest rises. She spreads her legs and whispers, “no, not yet.” All will be revealed in time. Maybe she’s embarrassing herself, exposing it all like this. But that body, the way she arches her back. The way her eyes take snapshots in every direction. The way she lets it all out. The guttural screams. The perspicacious mind, catching inconsistencies in the script. The tongue sharpened like a razor that cuts too close to the bone.
The man is in awe of her as he watches her swing and sway with the wind. A perfect symbiosis. The thunder claps and plays better than the band. He is electrified by the lightning strikes, and for a brief moment he remembers what it feels like to be alive. Held under her spell, he begins to undress himself, and he too starts to dance. And then suddenly, without warning, the storm is over.
The man turns back to see that February is released of her flesh. The moment is gone. There's nothing beautiful here in the aftermath. Nothing more than a grotesque skeleton left to wait in dormancy for a new season, for another chance to bloom, for the hope to change. The only things left to assess are all the things she couldn't be. All the madness that became of her. All the destruction caused.
Half exposed himself, the man starts to panic. He never really liked storms. He prefers mild weather that doesn't make him anxious about what's to come. He realizes he should have stayed in his lane. Slower speeds, direct roads, nondescript scenery. He doesn't belong here. He pulls up his pants and lumbers off. Should’ve stayed in your lane.
After that, February disappears, and with her, those beautiful, terrible storms. The balance has been restored. The world is right again. Yet sometimes, in moments of melancholy or dissatisfaction, the man finds himself wanting to look back, just to remember what that exhilarating feeling was, just to get sentimental about it and remind himself it happened. But there's nothing out there to show that February ever existed. Nothing written, nothing spoken, nothing given, nothing taken, nothing real. Nothing at all.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Amazing