It rained, finally, last night after dinner. The sky congealed into grey and blue bruises and the wind coiled up, as a snake, and hissed through the leaves in the trees. Slowly I realized motion was afoot; I turned off the air conditioners and opened the windows and invited the storm inside.
Then I leashed up the dog and sat out on the front porch, as if to demonstrate how welcome the storm would be. The cat crawled under a covered plant stand and spat at the dog from time to time, making high-pitched, unfriendly snarling sounds from under the tablecloth.
The dog just grinned and pounced about the covered table with jocular feints, oblivious.
The rain, when it came, pattered mildly, even half-heartedly, as if disappointed by our warm reception. Still, there comes a time when a body can't be baked any further, and the water disappeared almost immediately into the hard earth. Only the lightest mist simmered back to me. I breathed it in, anyway.
Come on, I thought. You can't intimidate me. Is this all you've got? Pound harder. But it didn't. It trailed away almost forgetfully, as if losing track of its original purpose. Well, then, I thought with something close to disappointment (the anticipation is always worse than the moment!) and went back inside, closing the door behind me with a firm click.
listening to: R.E.M. "You are the Everything"