I plan to jump onto the white cloud approaching the mountain top. The sky is pristine blue. The weather forecast indicates that rain is expected later in the afternoon. I want to hike before the skies turn angry and the clouds become a gloomy gray. I imagine myself sitting on that cloud shaped like an eagle, as if nothing else matters.
I envision my husband’s face looking at me with admiration and awe.
“Look at her, flying so effortlessly,” he’d tell his friends proudly, noticing me for the first time in months.
He will remember how free-spirited and adventurous I can be, just like when he first met me a few years ago. He will recall our first paragliding trip in the Himalayas, the excitement of being strapped together and soaring through the sky. He will remember how our lips touched, the thrill of discovering one another as our bodies intertwined, and how he said my blue eyes reminded him of the sky. He will tell me how my wavy hair reminded him of a water cascade during the rains. He will say how my skin reminded him of the velvety grass he often walked barefoot by the creek, which carried the scent of lilies.
Things that have now turned into ordinary features of a woman who has succumbed to depression after two miscarriages and bloated like a hot air balloon, while he appears to have found solace in another woman’s arms. I’ve never seen her, but the beeping sound of texts on his phone keeps me awake at night. He insisted it was a work colleague until last night when I saw his phone flash with a message that read, “Where are you, love?”
I continue watching the swirling puffs of clouds, sometimes shaped like ducks or whales. I hope one of them takes pity on me and stops to offer a ride.
I don’t move when the sun disappears behind the clouds. I don’t move when I see the white puffs turning gray. I don’t move when I hear the clap of thunder. I don’t even move when I feel the raindrops on my head, one after another, finding their way into my eyes, blurring my vision, and trickling down my cheeks like tears.
The rain falls harder with every passing second. Goosebumps prick my skin, and I huddle inside the black jacket I wore that morning. The ground beneath me transforms into puddles. The sky displays a dark grey hue, like the strokes of an angry painter. What would happen if I jumped onto a gray cloud instead of a white one? It might not be a smooth glide, but more like a roller coaster, where I would feel like drowning in the thundershowers.
I know I won’t drown as the memory of my diving lessons flashes like a streak of lightning. I wonder what he would do if he knew I was about to die. Would he leave her? Would he return to me, apologize, and take me in his arms?
The rain has stopped. The gray clouds fade. I watch the sun hesitantly peek from behind them. My jacket is soaking wet. Raindrops trickle all over my body. But I know it will soon dry. The sky turns a pale blue. The puffs of white clouds return. I notice the one shaped like an eagle never draws closer to me. Instead, it floats away into the depths of the limitless sky. I stare at it like a wistful child, watching a balloon float away after loosening its grip on the string. I am still waiting.
