In space.

Out there, she says, it rains and the lightnings are like the flashes of the photographies that God takes. I wonder what the thunders are.

Surely it's God complaining at himself about the photo, but from so far away that we can't understand a damn word, says he. 

Both are naked and have just bathed the other one in sweat. They interlace their feet and at this moment nothing, except for all the rain, the lightnings, the thunders and God who is trying to take these panoramic views of everything what happens in the world, nothing matters.

Both, he and she knows that once she come back home, she'll try to clean it out the lumocolor pen ink fastly. Who cares. Right now he could paint her whole body and she wouldn't complain.