the storm before the calm

it's 10:15 or so and the 90 degree day has been replaced by a cooler evening, warmth whisked away by rain. a can of some popular, phase inducing, calorie free drink rests in your hand. you pull the ottoman to your feet and sit on the front porch. lightning occasionally flashes in the sky, it's the brightest object now that the nearby KFC is closed and its white and red visage is permanently unlit. a rumble of thunder follows, hesitantly, as if to suggest that maybe it's too quiet and still a night to be this way. the drug house across the street is playing loud music, and while it's not late enough to bother anyone, it messes with the ambience of the storm, of the still gently tapping rain drops and the smell of wet grass, not that you can smell the music. after about 30 minutes two sets of sirens race by the main street to your left, towards downtown, likely the slick and puddle filled roads causing some sort of traffic calamity. you hope nobody is hurt badly. the blanket you grabbed just incase is now getting used, draped over your legs and chest where the flimsy, loose-fitting t-shirt isn't doing its job. usually you'd play music out here, sad, depressing tunes about loss and depression and failure, but you had a good evening, and the storm is calming, so instead you look at pictures of cats and hope that they can also, somehow, find comfort in the simultaneously distant and near storm. it gets to 11:10. your head droops and your eyes close and your phone falls. you jerk awake. best not fall asleep outside. there are mosquitoes now. you'd say stink bugs too but they're indoors as well. you take one last look at the sky, briefly illuminated by one last flash of lightning, and then the thunder comes, the loudest one yet, as if to say good night. the front door slams shut behind you. you're out cold in minutes. two texts go unanswered. the storm slowly moves on.