You walk home from babysitting (“why is it called babysitting?  We’re not babies.”  “And I don’t sit on you”) and consider making a detour to the store, but you’re not quite sure what you need.  So you go home, a hint of thunder, and make a fresh pot of coffee and eat French toast leftover from breakfast, with strawberry jam, and then there’s lightning out of the corner of your eye, and a real proper roll of thunder.  You can only think of it as majestic before a sheet, literally a sheet of hail swings across the street.  It’s hard not to just sit and watch it, framed in your dining room window, with your chair so neatly pulled up to the view.

Assertive weather is useful.  Makes you grateful for a snug roof and dry feet and the days that are easy to be out in.  Probably not as useful for the seedlings in your garden, the mystery sprouts shooting up to remind us what you planted last year.  Will those be sweet-peas in the corner?  You can’t be troubled to look them up and find out, better to wait see.

You’re pretty irritated with your audiobook.  Are his hands cold? Are they still?  Is he still like marble? Like stone? Still perfect? Now is he perfect? Is his hair still bronze? Because you mentioned it a minute ago and I was worried that he’s sped off and dyed it. Still bronze? Whew. But is he still cold?  Like, marble, right?  Yet, like Leila says, it’s hard to put down.  Or turn off, as the case may be.

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