When the Wind and Rain are Friends
A man stands in a room — it’s raining, the wind is howling, and a figure stands alone on the shore of Lock na Keal
I’m in his room. It’s afternoon, but the space is submerged in darkness. Outside, the rain is falling so heavily the roof groans and sighs. It’s that windy rain, filling with the sound of a woman hoarsely whispering.
The bed is unmade, its faded white nylon bedsheets crumpled in whorls and piles of uneasy sleep. The thickly threaded sisal textured blanket dangles from the left side, its edge suspended above the cold grey cement floor.
The bed is a strong, roughly built wooden frame. It takes up one side of the room. He built it himself. On the other side of the room is an old sofa chair, its filling sticking out where the red leather is worn. He bought this chair on a very hot Sunday afternoon at auction, held on the grounds of the Oban and Kilmore Parish Church.
The room is familiar; the wind, the rain, too, are friends rushing around outside. In the closet, shirts, trousers, polos, jackets, all colors, never arranged, chosen from confusion.
If I could see anything, there’d be fells in the distance, Loch na Keal, mud tracks leading to its edge, and a figure standing alone, waiting to be engulfed in an embrace.
He turns and runs the distance from Loch to kitchen door, slamming his shoulder against it, cursing, while the door jabbers from the slamming.
He shakes himself, holding his blue shirt away from his body between his fingers. Tiny droplets of rainwater fly in all directions, sparking.
His face pale, eyes wild, and I feel myself wanting to move toward him. His teeth are chattering slightly. He is impatient. He fumbles with his shirt buttons, tears at the zip of his trousers, breathing hard. He has on red underwear, looking funny on him.
The rain outside is settling. The glass panes in the window have begun to clear. I can see outside.
Inside there is nobody, nobody but me and my youth.
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