The Mentality of the British Summer

The rain fell down and burst in hot drafts against my skin, as behind the M25 the Sun cast beams of light through the rapidly dispersing clouds. My red-flowered summer dress clung to my skin as I walked through the easing veil of water. Even in this rain, the Earth beneath me felt dry, as if it hadn’t seen a single drop for years.

As the last drop splashed against my forehead, a warm breeze rolled in from the motorway and the boy of my dreams walked, dry, towards my soaking form. He chuckled as he saw my jaw drop. I didn’t think about drenching his thin white shirt as I ran and embraced him like a cliché romantic flick.

“Oh, God,” I whispered. "I thought I’d never see you again.
We stood in a single patch of sunlight. His arms felt softer than ever, his skin brighter, hair shining in the sunlight behind him, casting a halo round his head.

“I’m here,” he said, kissing me softly. “And I’m never leaving.”

I woke up to the February cold and longed more than ever for the Summer when I could see my love again.

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