Waiting for the Storm

                I could hear the deep muffled voices of immature boys whose aging has turned them into men. They were inside of the apartment, behind the door that separated the open world of opportunities from the small world we created for ourselves. They were "shootin' the s**t." I heard laughter as they took turns offering each other the next beer.

               I was on the porch of this third floor apartment, waiting for a storm that had received exciting coverage on the weather stations on T.V. for days. It was one of the first announcements I heard on the radio as I drove home from work. The sky was supposed to light up like the aurora borealis, the northern lights. I had called my boyfriend and suggested we have a drink and watch the magic happen. He suggested I pick up a thirty rack of Budweiser. I pulled up to my driveway and noticed a familiar car. Approximately fifteen of those beers would go to the driver of that vehicle, and approximately fifteen minutes of my boyfriend’s time would be for me. Those fifteen minutes would be much later, and he would be in a much less coherent state of mind. I walked up the three flights of stairs to our apartment, preparing my smile, and revising the plan to make magic in my own company.

               I struggled trying to open the door that was often shut too tight. I put everything down so I could get to him, and I could hear his laughter on the couch in the living room. I forced the door open and he walked into the kitchen, grinning like a small child when they get what they want. I handed him the beer. No "Thank you," no "Hi, Babe," no hug or kiss. I waved hello to our guest, and headed to the cupboard. I laid my neck back in common defeat, and the glass I chose was the glass my eyes leveled on. There is close relationship between my glassware, my loneliness, and my drink of choice, tequila. I filled and drank, re-filled and walked outside to the porch of our apartment.

               I closed the door hard, not in an angry fashion, just a tightly-sealed fashion. And there I stood, in front of the door that separated his world from mine, back turned so that I could see nothing of it. I stared down the road. It was dark and appeared slick, like the road was the tongue of mother earth waiting to be watered, salivating at the quench the storm would provide. I stared out to the horizon of peaks that surround our small valley of a town, my own tongue salivating for the drink that helps me cope with these surroundings and then I stared up at the dark sky, waiting. But the storm never came around, and neither did he.