Philly Story - The Storm

"You can't do this to me," she screamed, her throat throbbing from suppressing the screams she desperately needed to expel from deep inside her. Thunder accented a brilliant lightening strike, and Deandra longed for the safe comfort of West Texas.

Confused and angry, he hated himself for making her cry. He realized she had cried too much. She had turned her back to him, but even in the dark, he could tell she was crying uncontrollably.

"Come inside, please."

Almost as though she had forgot he was standing behind her, she continued her explanation.

"I have worked so hard for my, my, for myself, to be someone you would want. There's no way you get to waltz into my life now, no way. You don't get to see!!!"

How can I tell her? he thought. How do I say I was wrong? Jarvis struggled to find words to fill the void she described.

"De, please?"

"I fucking did nothing wrong, nothing, and you made me feel, uh, feel like everything was my fault."

The weight of the last five years crushed upon her - the loneliness and tears, the moments of almost complete insanity.

"I couldn't even stand to listen to certain songs without crying hysterically, and oh my gawd, talk about breaking down anytime another man even dared touch me! You took it all!"

She could bear it no longer and raised her face upward into the pouring rain. Shivering and full of rage, she screamed. The volume of the scream drowned out the world around her.

Jarvis looked around nervously but realized no one else witnessed the display. Feeling helpless, he wanted something to do; he didn't like feeling helpless.

He began, "I didn't mean to...".

Wheeling around violently, she took aim. "Didn't mean? Are you kiddin' me? You're a big boy, Jarvis, and you were fully aware of what you were doing."

Anger welled up in him, threatening. Deandra caught the flash in his light brown eyes.

"Go ahead!" she demanded. "Make some snide remark about my drawl, or my hair or the fact that my silk dress is ruined now out in this fuckin' rain. Do it!"

"Shut up! Give me a chance to explain."

Deandra collapsed to the soggy ground pulling her knees to her chest. Panic seized her. All she wanted was to disappear into herself.

"No! No!" she yelled. "I won't be lied to anymore!" Automatically, she began to count backward to steady her breathing, to halt the wave of panic. She had learned the technique in those first few months after the shock of their breakup consumed her so completely she could not get out of bed.

"20, 19, 18. . . "

Memory flash back of sitting on a plane to Austin crying uncontrollably.

"16, 15, 14. . ."

Another flash back of the fight on South Congress Avenue in Austin.

"12, 11, 10 . . ."

His hand on her arm distracted her and her breath caught. She felt the jolt of electricity she always did when he touched her, the aching and burning inside to collapse into him. For a second, she feared she would disappear or return to the uncontrolled hysterical screaming.

Gently, he led her. "Come inside and let me get you a cab."

She shook her head in agreement and allowed him to take control.

Jarvis led her away from any possible audience by going into the minister's office. He had his phone out talking to someone, and Deandra vaguely remembers he had promised to call a taxi.

Just like him, she thought. Taking control so flawlessly.

She felt like a wounded animal - cold, wet and unable to think for herself.

Damn him. Damn him.

Her anger was almost spent. The dump of adrenaline brought pity and embarrassment. She began to cry softly longing for warmth. In those moments of confused rearranging, Jarvis disappeared and then returned with her things from the luncheon.

He handed her a glass of wine.

"Drink this quickly, all at one time" he demanded. Powerless, she submitted.

The liquor burned. "This isn't wine!"

He replied cooly, "No! It's brandy."