I unbutton my blue oxford and expose the black Dave Alvin t-shirt underneath. Dodging raindrops, the thunder leaps through my open window and bobsleds into my ears. I drop my water bottle and quiver for about half a second more than I want to; you see, that's how long it takes the beauty of a night like this to settle in.
And settle in it does. It creeps slowly like an overflowing drain and pretty soon the whole floor is covered with admissions and suggestions and rain and reboots. I unzip my black boots and pull them off, exposing sock-clad feet to the freshly vacuumed carpet (you ever know when to expect a visitor). The gray cotton drags across the tile as I, head held high, close the kitchen window to insulate from the rain and the noises that it makes and the ideas that it puts into my head. I draw the curtains so the lighting won't be a light bulb over my head, encouraging me to do something that should probably wait a bit.
Which is fine.
I close all the windows and seal my house like Tupperware before sneaking under my electric blanket and realizing that this bed is far too big. And with the new pillowcases, well--that's just wasteful. After the strange gymnastic routine of trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep, I realize that the rain won't let me sleep. I ignored it once tonight, and now it's just being spiteful.
We meet halfway, the rain and I. Without leaving this bed, this future outpost of God Knows What, I stretch my arm to the window four feet away and open it. The rain peeks through the flimsy screen and says hello. After introductions, the downpour slows. My windowsill dries and it smells like the ocean was just blanketed all over this town. And I know that your window is open, too, and somehow, that's encouraging.
Because some of us go to sleep at 10 PM. Some of us don't appreciate any of the Baldwins. Some of us don't much care for sugar cookies. Some of us had good summers.
And some of us have open windows.