Page 63 of Angel

I mulled over our growing connection once more.

He was thawing, but that also meant the fervor between us was rising at a dangerous speed.

What would happen if we let it rip?

The speculation and anticipation became a heady thrill the more we spent time together.

The next day out on the island, the oppressive Mediterranean heat broke as a massive black wall of clouds swallowed Mount Vesuvius and the surrounding sea.

We were at the tail end of our fish selection just as the heavens opened, unleashing a torrential downpour that flooded the stone gutters of Anacapri within three minutes.

Angel and I raced to the taxi hub, only to find a line of stranded commuters reading a handwritten sign on cardboard.

‘A flash flood’s blocked the main road,’ Angel shouted to me over the roar of the thunder, deciphering the Italian script. ‘No cabs are running, and the bus service is suspended.’

‘What do we do?’ I asked with a sigh.

Angel wiped a stream of water from his chin, twisting his lips in thought.

‘Seems like we’re hiking the mountain trail back to the villa. First an umbrella or two.’

We raced back into the small market and procured umbrellas in the pouring rain.

Holding them over us, we locked gazes and headed out towards the winding road leading to the villa.

We navigated the narrow stone paths as the wild wind buffeted our clothes.

The rain stung our skin, turning the dirt tracks into slick rivers of mud.

Wind hit us from every angle, and in a rip of draft, our new brollies snapped back, exposing us.

‘Fuck,’ Angel cursed as he battled to maintain control.

It was no use; the tempest was too fierce, and seconds later both parasols got whipped out of our hands, launching into the air before disappearing in a gust of driving sleet.

The sheer absurdity of trekking in the savage deluge with bags of drenched groceries, the wetness in my sneakers, and the loss of our flimsy covers hit me.

I stopped dead in my tracks, tilted my chin toward the black sky, and screamed a string of profanities into the face of the storm.

Angel paused and stared at me, his hair plastered to his skull, chest heaving.

Then with a huff, he matched my energy, letting out a raw, guttural roar that echoed off the limestone cliffs.

We lost it, collapsing into each other in convulsive, breathless chuckles under the deluge while the turbulence raged on.

Stumbling on, we finally reached the massive wrought-iron gates of Villa Isola Dell’Amore, drenched from head to toe.

Our clothes clung to our bodies, and wet hair plastered our foreheads as we scrambled for shelter beneath the archway of the front door, setting our loads down.

‘Look at us,’ Angel growled, wiping rivulets from his face. ‘We look ridiculous.’

‘Hey, speak for yourself. I was aiming for ‘disheveled chic.’

Angel huffed, wringing out his shirt.

‘I see it. It’s very dramatic, especially the streaked eye liner. Very drowned-rat voguish and tragic at the same time. I can see you in one of our music videos.’

‘Don’t insult me while I’m squishing in my sneakers.’