Swimming in the Flood

Listen to the story’s song before reading

Clanging came from far away, I was alone for the moment; I stretched my body, pushed out a yawn. “You know it being talked about already doesn’t make it any less significant.” Her words came from the other room, were followed by pounds up the stairs, “Now that Tropical Storm Passion is a hurricane everything is different.”

I’d been trying to hide from her under a couch cushion, moved the fabric from my face to say, “What we call the weather doesn’t change what it’s gonna do.”

“You’re really not gonna help?” She materialized in front of me, I jumped; the T.V. switched to a gray screen and blared out a klaxon siren. “Look, now there’s even a flood warning.”

I turned to her and the pillow fell to the ground. “You’re telling me that the water coming from the sky is collecting here, on the ground, where it falls?!

She wasn’t amused and I shot stone-face right back; shut the T.V. off, unplugged it from the surge protector. “Can you get the rest, don’t want anything to get ruined by the storm.

In case the power does go out I’m getting the candles ready cinnamon, cotton-candy, or gingerbread?” I wasn’t gonna answer and she knew that, went upstairs without waiting for my preference.

I sat up and my ears, no longer muted by fabric, picked up on the downpour outside; drops beat against the house like it’d been built under a waterfall. I looked to the wall; she’d wanted me to take every plug from the outlets in case of lighting and had already started, only a few things remained running.

She was always preparing, worried about what was to come, didn’t like that my lifestyle revolved around reactions but stuck with me regardless. When I laid down, when she figured I was doing nothing, most of the time I was thinking over the paradox of our love. I could come to no conclusion, both body and soul were paralyzed whenever I allowed the concept space in my head.

Stagnation is death before the heart stops beating, neither one of us deserved that.

The smell of gingerbread, stale and store-bought not homemade, filled the house; I went to the power strip and plugged everything back in.

“You coming up soon? I’m hopping in the bath.”

I was at the bottom of the steps, my back turned, eyes on the water washing under the front door in waves; the doorknob was cold to the touch, it turned; once unclicked from frame the wood flew open and the gust of wind responsible pelted me with rain.

The hill our house was on had a river running down its street; I sprinted into the flow, let it sweep me away.

Back to My Mixtape

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