When I woke, the panes of the windows ran with rivulets. Droplets had collected in the tiny grid of the screen and sparkled like the sharp facets of cut stones. A robin, sheltering somewhere in a nearby tree, gave again and again its falling, wistful, almost sorrowful call, a sound that rose and fell amidst the din of rain. You emerged from the bedroom shuffling, blurred from sleep, squinting though your glasses were on. You tucked yourself onto the couch behind me, pulled me against your warmth and sweetness as if offering these things, as if making of yourself a quiet, earnest gift. You mumbled into my hair, against the back of my neck, something about a European vacation.
You tried again. I understood even less of it, but closed my eyes to feel the drowsy hum of your voice sparkling underneath my skin. I let the rain beat into the pause, watched it course down the glass, listened to the bird call two or three more times before I spoke.
You know what I love so much about you? That I can never understand a word you say when you're sleepy.
I love spring rain, you said, suddenly clear and emphatic.
I tipped my head back until it rested on your shoulder. There was a faint gleam of sweat on your arm, the leftovers of your sleep, evaporating, chiming against my skin, a shine like diamonds.