by Ajah Hales

Created on: February 10, 2009   Last Updated: February 14, 2009

Even after twelve years, rainy days still reminded Jon of things forever lost. He checked his watch again. Damn. Five minutes to seven. The wife would definitely have his ass for this one. He slowly straightened his tie and logged off his computer, staring absently out of the window of his corner office as the fat drops rolled sideways across the pane. Cleveland. God, how he loathed this city. The wind, the working man's attitude, the perpetual doldrums, the God-awful sports, the hamster-on-a-wheel feel of it all, sometimes seemed to literally press down upon him. Jon cracked his window and inhaled deeply, pulling the scent of the rain into his lungs. He slipped his Cole Haan's onto his feet and grabbed his coat.

At home, Isis was rinsing black strap molasses and olive oil from her hair. It was her grandmother's secret recipe. It was sticky and smelled horrible, but it always left her hair looking shiny and feeling extra soft. Isis always made an effort, but today especially so. Jon would be home soon, not too soon; he never made it by seven, no matter what he said at lunch. His job was simply too important, they needed him too much. Despite her occasional nagging, Isis really was proud of her husband. She knew it couldn't be easy for him here, Cleveland after all was her city, her life and her family was here, not his (although in her opinion the latter was a blessing). Still, he had adjusted well, all things considered, and they had carved out a decent life for themselves. Jon was the Senior Financial Analyst for Pitney-Bowes, with an impressive office and a salary so choice that working was an option, not a necessity for her. They had a nice house in Shaker Heights, modest, but swank enough to impress her girlfriends and keep her Father off her case for marrying that white boy'. As she set her hair on hot rollers, she walked the length of the house, mentally cataloguing their collection of things. The cherry end table that her stepmother had given them on her last visit gleamed like blood red marble, and as she trailed her fingers across its lacquered surface, she noticed how warm it felt, almost sentient, in fact. A print of The Kiss' by Klimt hung above it, with a spotlight overhead. Isis could remember the day she fell in love with that painting. She could remember going to the Harn Museum every day that the exhibit ran, captivated by the love captured in each brushstroke. She remembered the joy that had welled in her heart the day Jon brought the print

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