Goddamn the universe and its attempts to keep me humble.
For all the accomplishments I’ve amassed in my thirty-one years on this planet, an out-of-the-blue text message from someone listed in my phone as Restaurant Douche-Canoe is not one of them.
My morning is completely derailed, which is a shame. It was going so well.
I can handle the rain. I look forward to it, the start of summer and its thunderstorms inevitable this time of year in Florida. What I can’t handle is the unsolicited phallic images I received before the clock struck seven.
It’s a brutal reminder of why the extent of my personal life consists of spending what little free time I have at home and far away from the gender that has the balls—literally—to ruin my day before I’ve had any caffeine.
A crime if you ask me, and I do what any normal person would do after being blindsided by disappointing pornographic photos by an equally disappointing man: I fill a chipped mug with an aggressive pour of coffee. Step onto the porch in an oversize T-shirt that reaches my knees and mismatched socks that come halfway up my calves. I take a seat on the wood swing hanging in the corner and hit a thumbs-down on Dick Douche’s message to really deal a blow to his ego.
Free from penis hell and one step closer to shunning technology, a sigh escapes me when I glance up at the sky. Clouds of menacing shades of gray make their way across the horizon. A smilecomes next, unbridled delight when the wind blows through in a strong gust.
I’ve always been happier outside, the girl who grew up with dirt under her fingernails and grass stains on her knees. An affinity for rain and open fields instead of four-lane highways.
I love the end of May and the blistering heat of Florida Junes the most. I crave the swampy middle of July and look forward to sticky, unbearable August when the air shifts to an indulgent, lazy haze. The suffocating kind that holds you tight and never lets you go.
I wish I could stay here forever. Immortalized as a summer girl with tan skin, freckles, and a clarity I can’t seem to find when the autumn months creep up on the calendar.
“Quin.”
I smile when I hear my name, glancing over my shoulder at the familiar voice coming from the house next to mine. “Morning, sunshine.”
“It’s too early for you to be so chipper.” Harlow Whitaker sticks her head out her kitchen window, tossing a look my way. “You might be enthusiastic, but I can see the bags under your eyes from here.”
“Good. Teetering on the cusp of bone-deep exhaustion and burnout is exactly what I’m going for.”
“Being in our thirties sucks. Too many recessions. Not enough orgasms. Hang on. I’ll be right over.”
Her window shuts.
There’s the slam of an old screen door.
Shoes shuffling over concrete.
I blink and Harlow, with red hair, long legs, and half-laced Doc Martens, is climbing my porch steps.
“Hi,” I say.
“Happy June first, Quin.” She puts a party hat on my head and taps my nose. “And happy hurricane season.”
“I didn’t realize we were celebrating this year.” I pull on thechin strap, wincing when it snaps against my throat. “Are things so bad we need party hats?”
“You’re the scientist.” She sits next to me and yawns, a hand tattooed with half a dozen different flowers covering her mouth. “Isn’t the world on fire?”
“I mean, technically? Solar flares can cause geomagnetic storms here on Earth and—” I stop to take a sip of my coffee, smiling against the rim of the mug. “Not on fire quite yet, but never say never. The year 2500 is probably going to be a disaster.”
“What did you do last night?”
“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand and shrug. “Nothing special.”
“If you tell me you stayed up to watch the clock strike midnight on hurricane season like it’s New Year’s Eve, I’m going to be disappointed in you. You need to have some fun.”
“I have plenty of funanda life that doesn’t revolve around work.” Harlow lifts an eyebrow, calling me out on my bullshit, and I groan. “Fine. That’s a lie, but I didn’t stay up to watch the calendar flip over to June. I answered emails then went to bed early. There was a message from a kid out in Colorado who lives on a ranch. His dad takes him to the edge of their property to look at storm clouds, and he told me he can identify all of them.” I laugh, reminiscing. It’s exactly what I was like at nine years old. Enthralled by wind and the way the temperature drops right before it rains. WatchingTwisteron my parents’ VHS player until the tape wore out and riding my bike to Blockbuster to rent another copy. “It was cute.”
“I guess that’s an acceptable reason for staying in.” Her leg nudges mine, the hem of her overalls inching up her thighs. There’s a pair of cherries inked right above her knee. A stack of books next to it. “How’s the show? I’ve missed seeing you on my computer screen.”
“We’re back to daily live streaming videos, thank goodness. Spring is too dull. There’s not enough to talk about,” I say, mentioning The Rainy Day Show, the weather-centered social media page I run.“NOAA is predicting an active couple of months with twenty-three named storms, eleven hurricanes, and six majors. I’m going to be busy.”
