Irrational Lust
by Rhoda Novak


The air had a musty smell as the water drops exploded on the old green canvas tent like buckshot. Where John’s hand had reached out for me and touched the canvas, the rain snaked down the tent walls, falling on our naked bodies, chilling us with intense cold. The mesh windows were tightly closed, their canvas flaps trying to keep out the storm. Wind whistled through the zipped tent door, causing the Coleman kerosene lantern to flicker, its shadows eerily dancing with the waxing and waning gusts.

We huddled together, listening to the claps of thunder from the sudden storm. I curled up against John, my head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped around me. He lifted my hair, laying down lines of slippery kisses along my shoulder.

I pushed myself away from him. “John, this is insane,” I said. He traced my backbone with his finger. I might be throwing away my whole life if we were caught. My father didn’t know we’d eloped. I felt irrational — irrational lust, that is. Is there any other kind?