The wind is a flirter.
In the beginning it's cute, how it tousles you playfully and regardlessly, careless and kind. It never lets you believe you are not wanted, or noticed. Never does it touch the trees without first tugging on your sleeves, each of its light and deliberate touches felt as if meant for you and you alone. It tickles devilishly, like it's reminding you of some great secret you share, over the shoulder of an angry teacher as you try so hard not to laugh.
But then, after a while, it can begin to push too hard. Sometimes it goes too far, it's clumsy with clues, it trips over the hints it drops and doesn't hear the 'no' when you say it. It whips into your face, without pattern or shape, demanding a hand to hold, tugging the dress up your knees, flirting so loudly and ferociously you start to go out of your way to avoid it.
And so it searches for you, insulted and roaring, as you hide beneath window panes, shutters rattling, screen door banging against the house at the maddened wind's ego, bruised from your rejection. It brings rain and it brings thunder, sleet driven against glass, begging in its desperate fury to stop the games and play already, please, please come out to play. The wind gets angry, it gets sentimental, it fears you will stay in forever and it begins to cry for you, smashing your flowerboxes and overturning your trashcans, like a lost and lonely lover who knew not how to give in pieces.
It forgets you were only playing pretend.
The wind can be an awful flirter.
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