in a storm
For the initial three days, it rained. An unabated, torrential blanket of moisture smacked the pavement like pistol-precision hammers. He could not go outside. It had been enough of a struggle to get from the airport to the hotel, even though he sat in the back of a taxi cab. The driver had not said a word. What could he say? What would be heard above the din of the water that pulsated and punctured the metal frame of the vehicle? Now he sat or, rather, leaned upon the window sill. He gazed through the watery haze while smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. The smoke swirled in giant white puffs out of his mouth, floating toward the ceiling. His sight shifted from window to drifting smoke clouds, only to return to the rain. The television was on. The picture sent lightning flashes about the room. Yet the volume was turned down. No words emanated, only the shouts of the storm.
Sometimes during the three day stretch he lay on his back on the bed, still smoking, letting the ash drop on his bed covers. Room service was his only encounter with civilization—brief and without exchange of dialogue. Only the passing of money and goods signified interaction. After dinner on the second evening, he happened to catch a fleeting glimpse of himself in the mirror on the dressing table. He looked haggard and older than his twenty-five years. He had not showered or shaven since his arrival. He thought of her. The rain paralyzed his thoughts. The storm continued unceasingly as he slipped deeper into an oblivious depression. This was not the journey he had envisioned.
