For one week they had made their way west across the island toward the great city, finding clothes and shelter in the homes of friendly, frightened campesinos along the road, eating sugar cane and drinking water from rivers and swamps, sleeping in the swamps covered with mosquitoes but surrounded by stars by night, making their way to where they would continue their work in the revolution.
Now they body to body, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat, in the morning light of a rainy day in the city.
Gabby sighed and began to stir.
There were times when their lovemaking was like a thunderstorm.
He would come home from the University or the barrio and as soon as he walked through the door she would push him down onto the couch and take him into herself as if he were a deep breath of air.
Or he would take her hand at a gathering and lead her to a private place and lift her dress and take her from behind as if he were a strong gust of wind across the land.
There were times when it was like a hurricane.
They would crash upon the bed and lose themselves in time and space, rolling across, under, above and into each other until they were left soaked and silent in each others arms.
And sometimes it was like a soft rain. Their fingers would gently tap, tap, tap across each others skin, their lips would brush against each others lips like a soft breeze, and they themselves would move into each other as if they were leaves twirling down from a tree in a spring shower.
"Tomás," Gabby whispered as she opened her eyes.
"Mi mariposa hermosa," he answered. "Estoy aqui, estoy aqui."
Though their bodies had been broken by the revolution, they made love to each other tonthe rain that fell softly out the window on the city.
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