The moon

Too close, a thunderstorm is brewing, but it is not raining yet. I could, without hyperbole, nearly write by the flashes of lightning. I snatched a security light from the kitchen to lay against my notebook to make up for seconds of darkness between.

I could not sleep when Amber went to bed. The only thing I was tired of was failing to sleep. I may have already screwed up the circadian rhythms build from the school year, but I have no appointments now. I have a few chores tomorrow -- go to the sustainable goods store, mail a package for Amber, submit an already postponed article to Grunge -- but nothing much that a summer bout of insomnia will impact. I will see Amber for slightly less of the morning before she goes to work, there to remain until well into the night, hours past when they close. I regret this, but there is no sense in cleaving to a sleepless bed and keeping Amber up with my fidgeting and unsuccessful breathing exercises.

I had nearly forgotten the strangeness of these summer storms, apocalyptic threats on the horizon, rumbling like the earth itself is hungry, flashes so bright one can see the veins on leaves at the tips of branches. Yet, despite this, no rain. Looming foreplay, promised climax, and not a drop of wetness. When it comes -- if it does -- it will be all at once. A downpour or a tease, nothing betwixt.

The day preceding was dull and oppressive. Messages warned of temperatures more than a hundred degrees, with humidity thick enough that one might think it had just rained and, if it hadn't, it should for the relief of getting it over with.

Amber is more of a homebody. These types of days give a good reason. She taught herself graphic design with a new program, buying and playing with font packs and brushes. Overtly, this is to format my books better and make covers. The greater truth is that she needs the project and, absent coming scientific classes (there were no degree requisites in the autumn), she chose a new fixation at which to become an expert. It had been art and agriculture in the past. I have kept exclusively to further excelling at writing. Amber is a Renaissance woman.

We both spent too much of our days working before screens, Amber putting on shows and movies to provide her background noise. It was only into asking for a next episode that it occurred to her that I could not write this article about Urbain Grandier's folly with divided attention. She asked if I would rather work. I assured her that this was fine (so long as she did not press it further). This was work. I ought to confine it to times when she is also at work so that our time together is consciously that. (Though she will still indulge her obsessions, and I will go about my chores -- actual and assumed.)

Early in our relationship, Amber would be out here on the porch with me, awash in the curious breeze carrying the scent of the ozone of lightning strikes to the brave fireflies. She has a more outstanding obligation than to be a manic pixie. Best to let her sleep.

During a too brief sun shower before dinner, I asked if she might want to run around in it. She considered the question and ruled that she might stand in it. When I went outside, it was all sun and no shower, rendering my offer moot.

I would like to imagine a summer of drive-ins and road trips to cushion myself from the fall better, but Amber is working full time and is exhausted by default now. When she has time off, she wants to do the least amount possible and resents the notion of leaving the house unless it is strictly necessary. I have returned to the unenviable position of wanting to social plan for people who might wish I wouldn't. I barely have a taste for adventures that don't have Amber at my side, so I will convince myself midnight scribbling on the back porch may qualify.

Soon in Xenology: A new job.

last watched: Cells at Work: Code Black
reading: Trainspotting