//------------------------------//
// drizzle 
// Story: She Waits for Thunder 
// by The Red Parade 
//------------------------------//

A storm is on the horizon.

She sees it brewing beyond, lurking just outside her window. A mass of gray over blue. A blanket miles over the ocean. Lofty can see it all from her bed. 

A quiet sigh escapes her. The room is cold, even if the air outside is thick and humid. Static clings in the air and the stench of ozone reeks from above. 

There’s no thunder yet, but it’ll come soon enough. It always does at this time of year.

A wave crashes against the shore. The sound is engraved into her head now. Same for the smell of salt heavy in the air, and the distant cries of gulls up above. 

A creak echoes through the house. She ignores it, focusing on the half-knit project in front of her. The backboard is cool against her back, a pillow serving as an intermediate between it and her head. 

Music from a record player plays softly in the background.

A quiet hum as Lofty looks at the nearly-garment.

It’s a scarf, but she’s only half-paying attention to it. She’s knit so many that she can make them in her sleep now. There are exceptions, though. Namely the one that she gave to Holiday. 

That bugger had kept her up for hours fretting over every little stitch and thread. Four other scarves had been deemed unfit for Holiday’s neck before she finally knitted the perfect one.

Had it paid off?

Definitely maybe. 

Holiday’s smile was etched into her mind now. The laugh echoes across the room. The ghost of their hug clings to her. 

A scratch on the record produces a skip in the music.

A sigh follows shortly after. 

“She’s not yours, Lofty.” It comes out softly as the knitting slows. “She’s got Rolling. She’s happy.”

That should’ve been enough. 

Lofty leans back against the headboard of her bed and waits for thunder.