Jacob More

even the vegetation shrinks. the bloody peonies on their thin stalks, bowing and murmuring to one another; dripping, bulbous. the thunder crawls up the sky like an ant before disappearing into the crack the lightning has made for it. gray, heavy clouds press east, herding one another towards the sea.

the wind is knocking things over, tears his hat right off of his head. it stays aloft for longer than it seems it should before thudding at a bad angle to the ground, skidding along the sidewalk. he is forced to take a few ungainly leaps after it, but is successful in rescuing it (at the last second) from the garble & mutter of a passing tourist couple, ensconced in their travelogues and their maps of the city. even so, he mutters an apology and scrambles out of their way.

he can feel it approaching in his cracked rib, the one he never got fixed and which healed wrong. sometimes he felt it when he breathed too deeply. he would feel it when she lay with him, when she rolled on top of him & mounted him with breathless abandon, eyes full and round and bright. he can feel it, marching in a wet gray phalanx from the west, like a weary platoon of soldiers ready to lay down their arms & spring into the arms of lust.

the rattle & clatter of a skateboard on the opposing sidewalk draws his attention. it is the sound of a failure, over and over again, a determined failing punctuated by viscid expletives & furious gobbets of spit aimed at nowhere in particular. it is too humid for a shirt. the tiny curl of sweat tattoos the young man invisibly as it wanders over his topography.

the thud & bump of a cadillac driving by, unreasonably quickly, blaring fuck-me music. a girl with platinum ringlets & thick lips tossed her cigarette out the window and screeched around the corner. he shook his head. the mating rituals of the young had, somehow, overnight, turned obscene. rue filled his head as he recalled & reviewed the various trysting places he'd visited in his flaming youth. he smiled & chuckled fondly.

the sidewalk was beginning to acquire polka-dots. he looked at the purposeful trees, planted soldierly in distinct distances from one another and watched them turn coward in the throat of the storm. they waved their thin branches frantically, bending & twisting at the abdomen - even their leaves flinched, turned belly-up & blanched. he had not thought to bring an umbrella. did not know it was supposed to rain. but there, up ahead, lonely in a tiny patio, a small cafe with two outdoor tables - one with, and one without, an umbrella. such a small thing, seeking shelter from the imminent storm, brought a bit of a giggle to his mouth. he eased into the chair under the umbrella and sat back. instantly, the redolence of the ocean rushed into his nostrils. the dying nasturtiums in the wooden flowerbeds wriggled, pale with both the loss of the sun to the clouds & their annual sickness.

thunder - again! a friendly waiter with a nervous eye that keeps leaping heavenward. he wants to question this man's judgement, sitting outside before a storm hits. it's going to be a doozy, says the radio, crackling & chuckling in safety. the waiter bites his nails and leans against the front window, staring out. he brings the man a glass of iced tea, which he has asked for very politely. seems a bit fey, he remarks casually to a co-worker. weird old coot.

adolfo is the name the old man wears. he wears it like an old coat, and it is a hand-me-down from his father and his father before him. one of those things you take out of the closet & dust off. for fancy occasions. he prefers not to wear it, instead opting for the anonymity of the streets, where he peruses strangers like books on a shelf.

the skateboarder - Boyd, since we're giving everyone names, now - is brow-furrowed, resolute. the thunder of his deck against the concrete is matched and surpassed by the sudden sonic torque from above, preceded by lightning too distant to see. adolfo is watching him from beneath the worn umbrella, whose flaps are agitated, whose material is becoming heavier by the second with the rain. but it hasn't broken yet. the air plugs up adolfo's nose, fills up his mouth with sand & grit, and he coughs & hacks out the invasion to the best of his ability, screwing out the same from his eyes with blinks & facial winces. eventually he must doff his gold-rimmed glasses & rub at his burning corneas with the edge of his sleeve.

this is nothing, he thinks.

"probably blow right over," he hears someone say as they stride rapidly by, seemingly uncomforted by their own forecast.

there - lightning! the white-hot brand against the clouds, almost runic, spelling out some coded message for someone, somewhere.

adolfo could wait. he drank lustily of the iced tea & laced his fingers together. inevitably, his eyes trundled back towards Boyd, who seemed totally unfazed by the sudden demand of the weather. it was as though he hadn't even noticed the sun had gone, or that rain was falling - fat, fat drops which hissed after splattering on his skin. he did not notice. again and again, picking up his deck & attempting the same trick, and again, failing, swearing, spitting.

adolfo thought he would have been tired of the sport by now, but Boyd's tireless monomania was enticing. it was something to watch while he waited.