A red and gold leaf floats across the room, seemingly weightless, before settling onto the carpet between my spot on the couch and the TV.
I glance at my open patio door where another gust of wind brings the scent of promised rain, but instead of getting up, I tuck my legs underneath me and pull my fleece blanket up to my chin, careful not to tip the bowl of popcorn resting on the cushion next to me.
A storm is coming.
You spoiled brat, I’m gonna teach you…
I snuggle further into the corner of my couch. That was so long ago, I remind myself, inhaling deeply through my nose, willing new memories to replace the old.
This is my home.
I’m safe here.
The low rumble of distant thunder calms me further.
No matter how much they tried to beat it out of me, I never lost my love of violent weather.
I never understood why I was supposed to be scared of storms. Didn’t understand why it made me different, or wrong, or stupid––like they claimed.
It wasn’t the violence I craved, it was the change. The washing away. The cleansing. That smallest sliver of hope that a wave might crash through, dragging away the old, leaving something new.
And maybe that’s why I still like them. There’s still that spot in my chest, deep inside of me, that wants to be sucked up into the sky, whisked away from it all, and dropped into Oz.
As if summoned by the wind, the woman on screen opens her front door and the world around her morphs from black and white to color, and I let the familiar sense of nostalgia wash over me.
The sounds of the nearing storm keep filtering in and out of my awareness, even as I sway my head to the familiar songs.
My hand is halfway to my mouth, popcorn between my fingers, when the dull noise of groaning metal drags my gaze to the patio, the sliding glass door open wide.
The gauzy curtains I installed last year are flowing eerily with the breeze, but the streetlamp outside is burnt out, so I can’t see beyond my tiny balcony.
I’ve never really trusted that balcony, it’s as shabby as the rest of this building. But I figured it’d take more than a little inclement weather to knock it down.
I give myself a mental gold star for never bothering with furniture out there as I lick the salt off my fingers.
Another roll of thunder, closer this time, draws my attention back to the balcony.
And the man standing in my open door.
