01 A bad day to be home.
Tit tat tit tat shhhhhhhhh; tit tat tit tat shhhhhhhh.
Torrential rain lashes the earth, and gale-force winds howl amongst the sky obscured by clouds, some thick rolling silver, some pulled ashen wisps, and a few charcoal black smears. The heavens weep to some unknown god that's lost in misery. A garden battered, the plants lie bent or bending in the clusters of pots and bags barely sheltered by a low double-stacked stone wall and an old farmhouse that encloses the courtyard. A dilapidated red-tiled rooftop capped with two simple chimneys, one of which puffs heavily. The wind dragging the smoke away. The matching red brick details at the corners and window frames (in contrast to the sandstone facade) are obscured by mature, cascading wisteria clinging to it like an old maid pulling its shawl tight to escape the chill, no? Despite appearances, the rain is warm. It must be a summer squall.
Motion. A lady strides out from under an ancient oak. It shows the scars of forgotten seasons. Branches pulled taut, leaves scattering ripped into flight (to the other side of the wall). Its gnarled branches reach out like the outstretched arms of a jilted lover. She raises her hands slowly and a brilliant smile creeps up. A grin, so bold that it's infectious. Her bare feet sqige and squage in the mud oozing through her toes. Making a small jump and prance in the shallow puddles as they form. She is an enigmatic contrast, an uneasy joy. Freed to stand obscured by the rain but also to dance and sing, shout to the heavens unheard. Her confident steps are an otherworldly beauty.
It seems that in her there is a defiance of that gloom in the surroundings, undaunted by the elements she dances with the untamed joy of blissful yet ignorant youth. In that ephemeral instant, she transcends the limitations of her existence, finding solace in the chaotic harmony of the natural world. It is a catharsis born of the elements, an exhilarating journey into the heart of an indescribable emotion that leaves an indelible mark on our very souls. And as the rain continues its relentless descent, a question lingers: Will she carry this unquenchable joy with her as a beacon of light in the encroaching shadows?
She chuckles, then laughs, and then apparently treads on a rock or stubs her toe because there is a moment of grimace before looking at her foot. Wincing as she strides back under the tree to lean against it and once again looking at her foot, there is no obvious cuts or damage.
Looking out onto the thick fog and nearly black sky. Then down at her sodden clothes. A white shirt clings to her skin, splattered with mud, and black jeans with the bottom half absolutely caked in the red-gray clay. Her eyes are downcast, her smile is no longer joyously crazed but sheepish. Her hands pat down her shirt only to smear the mess further. She is awkward, very much so, fidgeting for a while. Vaulting over the almost waist-high wall with a slight grunt of effort, she cautiously makes her way towards the door of the house.
The dark green wooden door was slightly left to the center of the house and covered with a shabby portico (over the large extending concrete step) the wooden beams were dented and dinged around the base but neatly covered with the same green paint, and the roof-like structure is covered with a corrugated plastic awning, most likely left over from the carport attached to the farmhouse on the right side (or the left side from the road).
Rummaging in her discarded bag to found a large old iron key (next to which was a pair of black Alice shoes and some white ankle socks).
Unlocking the door with practiced ease, she is about to step in when she notices the ugly-colored drips from her clothes. The dirt has contaminated the wooden floor with mud. Frowning, she peers into the landing of the dimly lit house, hearing the gentle din of the television and some not-so-gentle grumbling snores. Carefully, she reaches around to place a still-dry bag onto a doily-laden table and her shoes underneath.
Leaning back outside under the small wooden awning, she decisively plants herself on the step before unbuttoning her jeans and tugging. They cling like a second skin, dense and heavy with mud and water, resisting her efforts to remove them. After a short battle of wriggling and shimmying, her eyes red, either from frustration or from the whipping wind, they are rolled down, turning inside out, and wrestled over her feet. Using the inside to rub off some of the remaining mud, they are left folded by the door.
Tiptoes around cleaning herself in the kitchen, before dealing with the trail of mud (careful not to wake the sleeping snorer). After retrieving her socks and jeans creeps up a well-worn wooden staircase and places them into an airing cupboard, pulling a switch. The is no sound, from the green foam-covered copper drum, the is expected to be a sound. The is no rumbling hum, no clinking or pinging as the temperature changes, not even a grumble. Hearing the wind whistle outside and feeling goosebumps roll over her legs, she must be cold.
This is truly the worst day ever.
...
She had worked in the last place to eat in town for 3 years now, but the once bustling with laughter and the clinking of glasses cafe was now eerily quiet. The morning was crisp with only light meandering fog on her walk into what was left of town, not a single car drove past. The handful of storefronts, which had once displayed colorful knickknacks and local crafts, had long since pulled their shutters down for the last time, one was even adorned with "For Sale" signs. The relatively new tarmac road was barely used; the windows which were polished perfectly only a few years ago dusty, with cobwebs clung to the corners. The new Starbucks closed permanently before its grand opening, and some fast-growing clover was poking out of the guttering. The optimism was gone along with the noisy clusters of tourists.
Turning into the cafe to the ring of the bell. She switches on a handful of plastic candles on the counter and places them back carefully into their glass bowls. Hearing the clanking of plates. Lifting up the pass-through in the counter and through the painted white door. The is a middle-aged man on his knees emptying a cupboard into a large cardboard box. A sinking expression gradually overtook her face. It was as if an invisible weight had settled upon her shoulders, causing her brow to tense and their eyes to cloud with a sense of foreboding. Her lips, once relaxed, pressed taut, forming a line. The man looked at her. He was scruffy with a morning shadow about his face and slightly puffy and sore eyes.
"I am sorry" almost a whisper he croaked. Placing a hand on his shoulder her posture shifted, becoming slightly slouched, and bending her knees into a crouch, next to him. "I understand, it's ok." So close their shoulders brush she starts to help him clear the cupboard. He looks a little startled by her closeness but continues to work. "Thank you for sticking with it here. It means a lot to me and Mavis. I am sorry, I wasn't expecting things to go so suddenly. I could off at least given you more notice"
"I've been here the whole time, it was bound to happen. If you want we can end my contract once everything is packed or today. It's up to you." Her head tilts to the side as she thinks, chuckling to herself "I know you're an old geezer but I have long thought of you and Mavis as friends. Since I don't know if I'll be seeing her let Mavis know she can text me or write whenever. You too."
The man with a few wisps of gray forms a wobbling smile. "You really are a great friend, to both of us and I am sure Mavis would love to write. Although I am not sure about texting."With a very exaggerated cartoonish voice " We're old now, how can I use such newfangled technology. Ooo poor old me." sigh "Can we have you work till the end of the week, the is plenty to do, packing up or painting. I am hoping to get my deposit back to tide over, till I can find a new job myself. "
Retracing her steps the air was heavy and humid, the fields rustled as the wind picked up. With each step, one foot in front of the other, felt like the very air was weighing them down. A gentle drizzle was only a physical relief, she ignored the umbrella safely stored in her brown leather messenger bag. Letting her thoughts wander. In her heart, she knew it was only a matter of time before the cafe closed the scattered locals allowing it to continue a little bit longer than the rest, but at the end of the day as much as everyone talked bad about them they needed the tourists, they gave the place a much-needed cash, otherwise, the things kept falling apart as life got more and more expensive. Reflecting on this wouldn't help it would just worsen the mood. Passing a crossroads.
She had always found solace in the simplicity of her rural life, surrounded by the sprawling fields and winding roads she knew so well. Yet, now, as the rain intensified, so did her inner turmoil. Maybe like the other younger folk, she would be forced to leave but she knew that her Gram would never. She had never felt trapped by this before, as she loved this place, but what could she do? The was no work, the family's farm had been mostly sold to keep up with the spiraling upkeep of the property. The responsibility weighed heavily on her heart, even if her home offered no prospects or opportunities, it was home.