Saturday Morning

"My head feels like it's in a bubble made of jelly," I said. Elizabeth giggled.

The rain started to break up the heat just before one. We'd been laying in bed all day; I was nursing my hangover, and Elizabeth was nursing me. The cool, silent rain was a welcome relief. We were sticking to each other when we touched, and the heat was not conducive to my headache and dehydration. Still, it was fairly quiet outside and I found myself blissfully unaware of the bustling city only a mile or so away.

Lizzy started singing, in a quiet tone that couldn't quite decide whether it was a whisper.

"Rain drops keep falling on my head, (deedly dee) but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red," she sang-slash-whispered. It made me close my eyes and smile. It was one of those rare, delightful moments that already feels like a memory before it's even over.

The thunder started gently rolling in from the distance. I could hear it tumbling, tripping over itself, over the far off clouds, in an effort to be close to us. A flash shone in through the windows. Elizabeth's fingers dawdled over my chest, pretending to be small people walking on strange, uneven terrain. But they seemed carefree all the same, the tiny people fingers.