J.G. Chayko

I get into bed and wrap myself in a snug blanket; there is a chill in the summer air normally reserved for autumn. I watch as murky clouds sweep over the blue and obliterate the sunset. I can hear the old lady out on the deck. She rocks in a wooden chair, looking to the sky, lifting her twisted hand to track the direction of the wind. I toss and turn, trying to ignore the creaking of her chair. My joints start to gripe, and I flip over several times trying to muffle their complaints; they feel thick, as though they were being pumped with liquid air. I spend the night in fitful sleep, hearing the old lady rocking and I call her to bed, frustrated by her refusal to rest. In the hours before the sun rises, my partner sleepily asks what’s wrong. “It’s going to rain”, I tell him, minutes before the drops pound against the window, a thick humidity permeating the air.