Summer storm

A flash storm just blew through our neighborhood. Hail, lightning strikes, thunder crashes, window-rattling wind. Our beagle, Jack, shadowed me around the living room and kitchen, half-begging for the Pop-tarts I'd made for Ida and myself before dinner, and half-cowering at each house-shuddering boom of thunder.

The storm, like my fortunes, was over almost as soon as it began. In the evenings, I study Ida's face as she stares, unfazed, at the latest installment of America's Got Talent or a re-run of The Sopranos. I keep expecting to find evidence that our decline in stature has taken its toll on her, but other than the slightest strands of gray in her still lustrous hair, I find none.

I cannot help but wonder what she thinks of me. Was I dishonest with her in how I first presented myself? Have such reduced expectations altered, in any way, what she feels for me?

I do not know. I must, however, succeed. Somehow.

After the storm, we ventured into the city. Police lights pulsed mere blocks from our house, cordoning off lightning strikes and downed power lines from the unwary. Sheared branches, bright with summer green, littered the roadsides. Twenty minutes and the world had changed.

Today, I've made little progress on my novel. Given my current prospects, I must make this a success. Mr. Rockwell, doubtless, has little time remaining for gifts, and those of my colleagues who have been little affected by the economic downturn are, doubtless, leveraging what assets they can for their own betterment, not the betterment of one whose origins, I must now admit to myself, remain suspect.

For now, I must rest. Perhaps tomorrow will bring more whispers from my muse, a smile from my dear Ida.