where is the storm

the wet, sticky air covered her skin like a blanket. the brightness of the cloud-covered sky stung her eyes and made them ache in her head; but she could go nowhere. the shade of the maple was as offensive to her as the cloudy sunlight she stood in now, and wherever she went, she would still be there. there was no running from her own existence.

the thickness of the air gave the sensation of drowning as she stood there, quietly breathing. she was aware that the land around her could be perceived as beautiful, indeed, she tried to see it herself, but all she saw was the deformity that sometimes masquerades as beauty. the trees were green, but their green was that of indifference to her plight and her pain. the green of the grass that should speak to her of cool, lush life, only spoke of a hot, dry sensation on her dirty, bare feet which were beginning to sweat.

where was the rain? where was the storm that should be on her at this very moment? the thrill of the thunder and lightning that made her heart race and her spirits chase the raidrops held captive in the wild wind. where was the storm? it should be here today, she thought. i can even feel the ground speak of it as one speaks of a punctual friend that is hours late. the trees too; they reach their arms to the sky, trying to feel for that first hint of energy in the air, that first scent of the storm. yet nothing came. not the smell nor the distant call of thunder. only more heat.

the sun could still reach her through the wet blanket of clouds, and she felt the hot sensation on the back of her neck as if of a stare from a stranger who wishes you ill. her frustration escalated, mixing in her head with the dry, dirtiness of her feet and punctuated by the musky smell of her own sweat which began to moisten the groove of her spine and the back of her neck.