I woke up to rain beating on my ass. Nice trick, because there was only one small window open, half the room away. The wind blew it sideways around fifteen feet* through the small gap until it found my coppertone bum. The next thing that I noticed was the sound of the bombs going off, rattling the bed. I glanced at the clock: 4:30am.
In the south, thunderstorms are generally an evening thing. The instability of the overheated pregnant air causes them. In Minnesota, just as often as not, the greatest lightshows are at an hour where no sane human is paying attention. The room started to look like it was a disco, flash flash flash boom boom boom. Of course, this made me feel like it was time for a drink. I wandered into the kitchen.
When I came back, my deaf wife had been roused and was standing at the larger, closed window—“The world is getting washed” she said. I went back to the ocean-portal sized opening in the wall and closed it, thinking that my ass had been washed quite enough.
* Krista made me measure: it was only five feet.
