Come Again Some Other Day

It comes on occasion; this is one of them. There is a tempest rolling in over the hills of our self-imposed lifetime. It’s deceptive, starting fluffy and white; a lamb coasting along the sky. We’re always too naïve to see the sea of black sheep behind it. There is no weatherperson to predict a storm like this. All that can be relied on is your own intuition and a really thick raincoat.

The wind arrives first, stirring the leaves into a frenzy before they are clipped free of their home to exist somewhere further below. It tickles, teases the possibility of change. There’s a promise in the breeze; perhaps there’s good fortune beyond those clouds. It’s hope that allows us to dream of that day whilst the storm presses further into the valley.

I watch the clouds arrive on a subtle Tuesday. It comes in the mailbox, a slip stamped with big red lettering; the second one this month. The breeze is brittle on my exposed neck; I shiver returning to my apartment. Lacking the fortitude to open the envelope, I instead toss it into the tray on the counter. Welcome your new sibling, kids. Play nice

The hunger in my stomach is quickly followed by disappointment. I know what lies in the fridge; what everything used to be. It’s easy to make a habit of buying groceries; it’s difficult to put them to good use. Most of what we eat arrives at the door. I’m told there’s no shame in it, but I can’t stare my checking account in the face without seeing flies crawling across the screen. The rest of my savings goes to rent. Two more days of sleep for dinner and the money fairy should drop some good news into my digital deposit box. Like the sun, it’ll be a sight for sore eyes.

Nothing is clean to my standards, or hers. I know it’s good for us, but the energy vanishes when I see those clouds out the window. Maybe a good wipe down would suppress them but I’ve never been strong enough to find out. Today is not the day. Neither will be tomorrow.

A lance of lightning flashes in the distance, painting the apartment white for a millisecond. I choke back a breath as I wait for insinuating thunder. The silence is pregnant with nervous anticipation and the promise of ghostly repetition. The car rolls into the driveway. When it parks, the thunder cracks, booming through the clouds that have now stretched dark fingers halfway across the cityscape. From the window I watch her exit the car and dart for the door.

She comes in with an exasperated, yet tired expression painted under thick glasses. Her hair’s always pretty and always frazzled. Today is no different; she scoops it out of her face. We meet eyes, a pair of hazel irises backlit by a sky losing color.

We exchange pleasantries. Her day was fine; she’s aching, lower back twinging. There’s a pause when she returns the question. The scan; her eyes flickering around the living room, the kitchen. Nothing’s changed since the morning. She blinks to hide her disappointment, finishes asking her question. It fails and we both know it.

There it is. The rain. It begins to patter upon the window, droplets at a time. The sky reads melancholy and we’re off to the races.

It’s not necessarily a fight; we don’t fight. We miscommunicate, make promises to change our future habits, do so for a few days- maybe a week, then sink right back into old routines. With the truth realized, the rain becomes torrential, tapping at the window as if pleading to enter our home. The noise grows to almost unbearable levels, drowning us out until there’s nothing but the fuzzy drone of weather. It becomes a blur after a time, clearing only when we get everything out of our system.

For a while, home is uncomfortable. We feel semi-criticized for needing some sort of a change; how dare our partner be disapproving of a flaw and want to see us get better? Assuming it’s rooted in ego, there’s a shame in knowing you have flaws. Almost a doubt that your partner loves you entirely when they point something out. To some, this is obviously incorrect. Personally, it takes a moment to process that that love is still there. At this, thunder cracks louder somewhere beyond the ceiling.

As we go about the evening, both of us submerged, under the weather, we float like phantoms. An invisible blanket of eggshells lines the apartment floor. Chatter is minimal and silence feels more appropriate than words. It works until it doesn’t. Someone has to break the storm’s white noise with apologies. It’s the only way to snap the bone of a curse.

Love is a loop, I’ve found. There are an infinite amount of things in this infinite partnership that we repeat. Good or bad is not important. The key factor is that in this cycle, forgiveness and forgetfulness flow along with affection. They ride on a current strong enough to push away storms like these. Clouds that hover of an uncomfortable evening or two eventually part to reveal the sun.

This is when it’s seen. A couple of days after the storm, when sunlight shines harsh on the glass, turning droplets into beads of rainbow. Our gazes have changed. Solemn silence has changed into warm embraces and apology. Here is when we enact upon improving shortcomings; truly changing despite past evidence. We can do it this time, I know it.

We watch the clouds vanish over the horizon, fingers interlocked as the sky screams blue and still. A brazen yellow sun beams above, exiling the sour spots of our lives. More storms will come, as is the way of the weather. This, we realize time and time again, is okay. Until the sun expires or the clouds freeze overhead, we’ll live to see the next sunrise. Rain goes away. We don’t.