Clap-ton

Clap. Clap. Clap.
A shy noise came from the gate, sounds of hands clapping, anxiously waiting. He looked through the window. The house was dark, although she knew he was standing there, peering at her with his distant eyes.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The rain pattered the glass, smothering those stubborn clapping hands. They weren’t stubborn, actually, he thought, almost desperate, afflicted, but not stubborn at all. They could be stubborn in other subjects, fleshy ones.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She wasn’t like that, he considered, and, thinking deeply, she had never been like that. What was she doing, soaked and trembling and clapping?
He stayed, she remained.
Clap. Clap.
Clap.
And then she stopped. Suddenly. Utterly. She stopped as she never clapped there; as a stranger; as someone else. She took her huge bag from her back and dug around it until she found a little white stick. She peeped discreetly and went to the other side of the street. There lay a stately bricked wall, wet by those endless teardrops. She threw her bag away at the sidewalk and began to write something.
Oh, that’s a chalk, he concluded.
The rain cleaned her writing in a few moments, but he could see her strong handwriting fading away with two verses. And then she clapped again, at the other side of the street.
‘And will we cry in passion or will we cry in pain?’
Clap. Clap.
‘And will our lonely teardrops fill the world with rain?’
And then he understood. He looked his dark house, and heard the other Her snoring in the room. He sighed, and went to the window. He didn’t looked at her face, just breathed near the glass, making blurry stains and writing a slow ‘in pain’, backwards.
He left the window and went to bed.