Heavy rain washed the streets, as the night descended into a day of dark clouds and big raindrops drumming on the windows. Lightning split the sky and illuminated the bedroom, while the roar of thunder brought goosebumps to my skin. I got up and wrapped a dressing-gown around my shoulders, looking for comfort and warmth, while Michael was shaving and taking a shower. I could hear the water running in the bathroom, thought of my husband and felt sweet temptation... Then shrugged the thought off and went down to make coffee and tea.
The house was much darker than it usually is so early in the morning and the windows were creaking ominously, as the wind blew into them. I saw the heavy curtains move a little, felt a light breeze on my skin. A frown formed on my face. The house's heat isolation was shabby, for the lack of better word, at best and if we didn't want to have another cold, cold winter we would have to change it. Michael's been talking about it for a while now, but I never paid enough attention to his words... Not till now.
Funny, how sometimes we can listen to the words other people say, without truly hearing them. Even when those "people" are our significant other.
The kitchen was dark as a pit, so I switched the lights on... And marvelled at Bast's work of "fine art" on the carpet. My lips pursed. I was starting to think that our cat lacked some basic education in the field of good behaviour. Either that, or these days she was feeling neglected and was looking for ways to get our attention. A small sigh escaped my lips. If that was her goal, she was doing a lousy job at it. Sure, she was getting the attention of a certain carpet cleaning London company, but beyond that... Goodness gracious, if having Bast was even remotely close to having children, then we were in for a lot of problems! Or, more specifically, I was, as I'm the one who's going to be staying home with them. Michael has his job as an excuse to keep a safe distance. My frown deepened. Maybe it was time I look for a job myself.
Here's something to ponder about, while making a call to our domestic cleaning company and waiting for them to come and work some "magical", if I do say so myself, carpet cleaning.
The storm was still raging, when Michael came down the stairs to join me in the kitchen. He was dressed in black from head to foot, his fair complexion bright in contrast with his clothes' color. It made his silky blond hair seem somewhat lighter and his green eyes even more amazing, then they usually are. When he smiled and came to wrap his arms around me, I leaned my back on his chest and snuggled in as close as I could, so that I could soak in the heat of his body. He leaned down and whispered silent words in my ear...
Bast jumped on the counter and hissed, as though she'd seen a mouse or something, startling both of us. Michael swore and scolded at the cat, and I pushed away from him to pour coffee in our mugs. It was hot and raising steam, and smelled like heaven. I sipped it carefully, while Michael rummaged through the fridge, taking things out to cook an omelette. He asked if he should make it big enough, so that we could share. I smiled and said yes. Bast hissed again.
The phone rang, just as thunder exploded overhead. I looked at the cloak, it was 7:15 am, and blinked. Who could call at this time of day? Me and Michael exchanged a glance and he shrugged those broad shoulders of his. The phone rang again. I sighed and picked it up... Only to hear Miss Picksby's voice at the other end of the receiver. She started bubbling something about storms, rain, thunder and lightning, and rooftops...
The only part I actually got was her statement, that "there is nothing worse then having a rooftop over your head when outside it's pouring cats and dogs, as the rain always finds cracks in the rooftop to sneak in through and dribble all over your head". Yes, I know. It really doesn't make a lot of sense. But Miss Picksby isn't known for her "sense" or "timing".
And she definitely, definitely didn't know when it is apt to call other people's home number. It certainly isn't 7 in the morning.
But I guess you can't pick your neighbours...
If only we could. If only.
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