a day of rain
As the rain pounded on the metal roof overhead, she pushed her feet down further, toward the end of the bed, using her toes to find the chilly, smooth spot of sheets that had not cocooned her in the night. She looked out the window, through trails of water, unfazed by it. After all, rain on Sunday meant a day inside. It meant wearing soft faded jeans, an old t-shirt, and a sweater. It meant making soup from scratch, and steaming mugs of strong coffee. A rainy Sunday was the best excuse in the world to not be productive, and to instead, step back, and breathe a sigh of relief from the usual rushed pace the rest of the week demanded.
She was not really the athletic type. Even on sunny weekends, she avoided running, outdoor sports, or any activity that required the use of sunscreen or shorts. Her limbs were pale and unnecessary exposure was avoided whenever practical. She was perfectly happy wrapped in a blanket, reading, writing and watching old movies on the couch or people at the bookstore downtown.
Flinging back the covers, she took the top quilt with her, wrapping it like a shawl over her head and around her shoulders while she padded into the bathroom to start the shower. She plopped down to sit on the small, oval, shag rug, then waited for the water to heat up, staring patiently at the billows of steam rising above the top of the shower curtain. Stepping out of her warm quilt and into the almost scalding stream of hot water, she let it run over her and warm her to the core. Slowly she emerged from hibernation. Going over the list in her mind, she organized, by priority, the responsibilities that must be done; the few chores and errands left over from the list the day before and one or two of the things she hoped she had time for after everything else was caught up.
Turning off the water and stepping out of the claw foot tub, she noticed the bathroom, now opaque with steam. It was hard to see, and the soap-scented fog engulfed her, but her mind was clear. She slipped into her husband’s faded cotton bathrobe, tying the frayed belt around her waist. Finally, she headed to the quiet dark kitchen, ready to warm it up as well and bring the rest of the house to life with the day’s first batch of coffee.
She was not really the athletic type. Even on sunny weekends, she avoided running, outdoor sports, or any activity that required the use of sunscreen or shorts. Her limbs were pale and unnecessary exposure was avoided whenever practical. She was perfectly happy wrapped in a blanket, reading, writing and watching old movies on the couch or people at the bookstore downtown.
Flinging back the covers, she took the top quilt with her, wrapping it like a shawl over her head and around her shoulders while she padded into the bathroom to start the shower. She plopped down to sit on the small, oval, shag rug, then waited for the water to heat up, staring patiently at the billows of steam rising above the top of the shower curtain. Stepping out of her warm quilt and into the almost scalding stream of hot water, she let it run over her and warm her to the core. Slowly she emerged from hibernation. Going over the list in her mind, she organized, by priority, the responsibilities that must be done; the few chores and errands left over from the list the day before and one or two of the things she hoped she had time for after everything else was caught up.
Turning off the water and stepping out of the claw foot tub, she noticed the bathroom, now opaque with steam. It was hard to see, and the soap-scented fog engulfed her, but her mind was clear. She slipped into her husband’s faded cotton bathrobe, tying the frayed belt around her waist. Finally, she headed to the quiet dark kitchen, ready to warm it up as well and bring the rest of the house to life with the day’s first batch of coffee.
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