Waving Not Drowning

It's a long drive, up north. Past a myriad of small communities, tiny one horse towns with similar sounding names, ending in brook or hurst or steed. The occasional signs of big box stores and chain  groceries glow in the dark off an exit ramp in the distance. Last chance for food, shelter, gas and family size jars of dijon mustard and 46 rolls of toilet paper for 34 miles. Hawks circle above, banking, soaring, catching updrafts and hovering effortlessly above the treeline. There's rain in the air, a faint shift in barometric pressure. Should've packed a tarp. Should've packed her life, jammed her belongings into boxes and bags and thrown everything she's ever been into the rental car.  Never come back. No real sense of where she's heading or why she's leaving except it's something she can do. Volitional, for now, at least. No set schedule, no dependents, no rhyme nor reason to anything anymore. Despondency, ambivalence. These are foreign words now tatto...

Drowning in sheets of never ending rain, walls of water coming at them from every direction like a spin cycle on high. Umbrellas pop, hats are ripped from their heads, sneakers are soaked through, feet waterlogged and wrinkled, like wizened old apple dolls. Their mission is to find and purchase affordable yet stylish rubber boots in an attempt to staunch the soaking, at any cost. Well, any cost up to $30, since neither Nancy or Loretta have new boots in their budget. Nancy is kicking herself, having left her fancy assed pink rubber boots at home 600 kilometres away. This day trip into downtown is turning into a bit of a bloodletting financially. Day passes have given way to cab rides and alongeés in coffee shops with sugar fueled desserts while desperately praying for socks to dry out. Short of kicking off their shoes and wringing out the fabric, they're doing everything they can think of to dry out. Up and down the Main, searching for the right pair in the right size that are $19....

Aw crap. It's raining out. Rainy rainy raining, none of this spitty misty rain, nah it's full on rainy rain and dammit I wanted to go to the post office and pick up a bottle of that Riposso Italian red we had the other night. Dammit. Sheldon sighed, a long, loud, exaggerated sigh, fully voiced, making Corbin the Corgi twitch his ears back, as if flicking off an errant fly. To his credit, Corbin snuffled a beat then fell back into his deep sleep, dreaming of whatever it is that fat under exercised middle aged corgis dream about. Sheldon looked at the sleeping dog. Let sleeping dogs lie, right? Dammit, I should take the dog with me but he hates the rain more than I do. Aw crap, I hate the rain. It never, ever lets up, I swear. Sheldon deflated back into the couch, letting his head snap back on his spine like a marionette, resting against the sagging cushions well worn from hours of stasis spent sitting in front of the television, day in and day out. He should get rid of this couc...