Stormy Weather

It was dark as dusk that afternoon when I lay down on the bed and gazed mournfully out the window. Our third floor walk-up on a narrow side street rose directly from a narrow sidewalk, on the other side of which was a narrow parkway lined with elms. A distinctly urban arrangement, yet one of forced intimacy with nature. The canopy of elms wrapped snugly around the sun room and grasped threateningly at my window, just out of its reach. In the growing darkness I rolled over and latched the frame closed to barricade myself from the approaching deluge.

Outside, a ritual summoning of the rain began. The branches thrashed. The limbs on the branches thrashed. The leaves on the limbs of the branches thrashed. It would start erratically, violently, as if possessed and intensify until they eventually thrashed together as one, in slow motion, gyrating like the last rotation of a spinning coin. Then, stillness. Silence. The entire performance would be repeated again and again until the rain arrived, sometimes lasting hours. Flashes of lightning captured the affair in lurid snapshots. I looked at my phone. No messages.

It had stormed every evening for days, for weeks. Every afternoon was oppressively hot and thick with humidity. People took water bottles with them to walk to the corner store it was so draining. People returned home bleary-eyed and monosyllabic it was so suffocating. Then at a certain point in the second half of the day, never the same time from day to day, never anyway to plan for it, never abiding forecasts, the sky would darken, trees would assume garish contortions, thunder would moan across the western border of the city and you’d hear the raucous clang of rain and hail before you saw it … like a warning. The entire city endured a daily meteorological Blitzkrieg.

Outside, people ran in all directions. Inside, people stood in windows and anxiously watched them. The narrow street became a narrow stream. The apartment shook. And it would all end as abruptly as it began. Except for the heat that refused to dissipate, always leaving it feeling unfinished somehow.

The previous evening I’d gotten out of the shower to find the day’s tempest had arrived at least three hours off schedule. He’d offered to come pick me up “all formal like” for dinner, and I had declined. I hadn’t even told him my name. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him my address. I towel dried my hair, poured a drink and monitored the storm and the clock. Storm. Clock. Sip. Storm. Clock. Sip. Thunder clapped. I cracked.”I’d like to request your chauffeur services after all.” “I’m in a cab.” Fuck. “I can have the cab swing by and pick you up.” Panic.

“No.” Continue reading