Rising up, you look out through the rear window and the rider looks back, his black crash helmet held in his gloved hand, his long hair pulled back, tucked inside his neck gaiter.
He’s hunching, ducking down, with the windswept rain lashing against his now exposed face, and you see those impossible features, his warm smile below those dark brown eyes, and while you can’t begin to explain any of this, you accept that you do know this man, and somehow, unchanged with time, he is here, tonight, and at your door.
The rider, staring wantonly into your eyes, calls out again, only more gently, “Hey, thank god it’s you, can you let me in?”
In a trance you reach forward and release the latch, the door swinging open and outward, the cold wet air rushing in and clenching, goose bumping at your bare legs. You recoil as the rider steps up and carefully clambers in, closing the door securely behind him.
He turns once more to face you, his dark brown eyes alive, their creases crinkling, smiling, beguiling. The brightness coming from his eyes climbing in through the opening of your own, your pupils so wide, hungry for any light in this darkness.
Never a fan of flashlights, you fumble for some matches on the counter top, and striking one you cup your hand to light a simple candle, one you had standing by and ready just in case.
“My god, you’re soaked” you say, and the rider pulls his shoulders from inside his heavy black leather jacket and lets the sodden weight slump to the floor at the foot of the camper door.
“Do you have a towel I could use?” he asks, never demanding, but somehow commanding, his voice centered, deep and low, as confident and strong as you always remembered him to be.
“Yeah, sure, of course” you fluster, your mind yelling: why didn’t you think of that already? You pull out the only large one you have and hand it over.
“Great, thank you” he says with a warm, genuine and deeply grateful tone.
“I didn’t anticipate this” he says, glancing toward the window where the rain continues to sacrifice its seemingly relentless droplet army. His eyes coming back to yours, then pausing, as slowly and deliberately he lowers his gaze, an effortless, approving smile forming, framed inside his rugged jaw, one that speaks openly of his total appreciation for your elegant feminine beauty, ignoring the woolen socks, and admiring your long slender legs and fabulously bare thighs.
His eyes return to yours and his smile widens with total recognition, you haven’t fixed each other’s gaze in over a decade, and you’re not sure how any of this is possible, but you do know that if he wants you, and it seems that well he might, then…